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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


From  the  Library  of 
BENNEHAN  CAMERON 

1854-1925 

Presented  by 
his  daughters 

Isabel  C.  Van  Lennep 

and 

Sally  C.  Labouisse 


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THE 
LOST  PRINCE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


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"You  must  salute,  too,"  he  said  to  The  Rat 


THE 

LOST  PRINCE 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

Author  of  "Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,"  "The  Secret  Garden," 
"T.  Tembarom,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

MAURICE  L.  BOWER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1915 


Copyright,  1914,  1915,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published,  October,  1915 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  NEW  LODGERS  AT  NO.  7  PHILIBERT  PLACE  .  3 

II  A    YOUNG    CITIZEN    OF    THE    WORLD Ir 

III  THE    LEGEND   OF   THE   LOST   PRINCE 2I 

IV  THE     RAT 34 

V  "  SILENCE   IS   STILL  THE   ORDER " 54 

VI  THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 65 

VII  "THE   LAMP    IS    LIGHTED!" 86 

VIII  AN    EXCITING    GAME g8 

IX  "IT    IS    NOT    THE    GAME" IOq 

X  THE    RAT  — AND    SAMAVIA I20 


XI    "COME    WITH    ME: 


132 


XII     "ONLY    TWO    BOYS" I38 

XIII  LORISTAN    ATTENDS    A    DRILL    OF    THE    SQUAD, 

AND  MARCO   MEETS  A  SAMAVIAN IS2 

XIV  MARCO   DOES   NOT  ANSWER I70 

XV    A   SOUND   IN   A  DREAM    . !88 


XVI  THE  RAT  TO  THE  RESCUE   .     . 

XVII  "IT    IS    A   VERY   BAD    SIGN"    . 

XVIII  "CITIES    AND    FACES"      .      .      . 

XIX  "THAT    IS    ONE!" 

XX  MARCO    GOES    TO    THE    OPERA 

XXI  "HELP!" 


195 

201 

•      •      •      •      •   207 

219 

233 

245 

XXII    THE   NIGHT   VIGIL 267 

XXIII  THE    SILVER    HORN 286 

XXIV  "  HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?  ".......  304 


XXIX    'TWIXT   NIGHT   AND   MORNING 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV  A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 3!5 

XXVI  ACROSS   THE  FRONTIER 333 

XXVII  "  IT   IS   THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS   IVOR!  "...   350 

XXVIII  "EXTRA!     EXTRA!     EXTRA!"  361 


374 


XXX    THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 388 

XXXI    "THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN " 39g 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  You  must  salute,  too,"  he  said  to  the  Rat  .     .     .    Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

He  stood  near  the  iron  railings  watching  the  passers-by  .     .      8 

His  father  made  the  pictures  seem  the  glowing,  burning  work 
of   still   living   men 18 

He  was  the  man  who  had  spoken  to  him  in  Samavian  .     .    28 

They  were  suddenly  dragged  into  the  world  of  romance  .     .    44 

It  was  the  man  who  had  driven  with  the  King!  ....    92 

The  Rat  whizzed  down  the  passage  while  the  squad  followed 
him 108 

"  Now  that  the  shoe  is  off,  it  is  much  more  comfortable, 
much  more" 164 

The  Rat  swung  himself  into  the  group.    "  Where  is  he ! " 
Where  is  he ! "  he  cried 198 

As  she  moved  toward  the  carriage  with  him,  he  spoke  a  few 
words  in  Russian 232 

A  moment  later  a  hand  lightly  touched  him 244 

Under  the  nodding  plumes  each  saw  the  face,  a  sketch  of 
which  was  hidden  in  the  slit  of  Marco's  sleeve  .     .     .  308 

"  It  is  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan.    The  Lamp  is  Lighted "  .  324 

The  ceremony  in  the  cavern 356 

Back   in    London 364 

The  King  had  the  eyes  he  had  longed  to  see 410 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   NEW   LODGERS   AT   NO.    7   PHILIBERT   PLACE 

THERE  are  many  dreary  and  dingy  rows  of  ugly 
houses  in  certain  parts  of  London,  but  there  cer- 
tainly could  not  be  any  row  more  ugly  or  dingier  than 
Philibert  Place.  There  were  stories  that  it  had  once 
been  more  attractive,  but  that  had  been  so  long  ago 
that  no  one  remembered  the  time.  It  stood  back  in  its 
gloomy,  narrow  strips  of  uncared-for,  smoky  gardens, 
whose  broken  iron  railings  were  supposed  to  protect  it 
from  the  surging  traffic  of  a  road  which  was  always 
roaring  with  the  rattle  of  busses,  cabs,  drays,  and  vans, 
and  the  passing  of  people  who  were  shabbily  dressed 
and  looked  as  if  they  were  either  going  to  hard  work 
or  coming  from  it,  or  hurrying  to  see  if  they  could 
find  some  of  it  to  do  to  keep  themselves  from  going 
hungry.  The  brick  fronts  of  the  houses  were  black- 
ened with  smoke,  their  windows  were  nearly  all  dirty 
and  hung  with  dingy  curtains,  or  had  no  curtains  at 
all;  the  strips  of  ground,  which  had  once  been  intended 
to  grow  flowers  in,  had  been  trodden  down  into  bare 
3 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

earth  in  which  even  weeds  had  forgotten  to  grow. 
One  of  them  was  used  as  a  stone-cutter's  yard,  and 
cheap  monuments,  crosses,  and  slates  were  set  out  for 
sale,  bearing  inscriptions  beginning  with  "  Sacred  to 
the  Memory  of."  Another  had  piles  of  old  lumber  in 
it,  another  exhibited  second-hand  furniture,  chairs 
with  unsteady  legs,  sofas  with  horsehair  stuffing  bulg- 
ing out  of  holes  in  their  covering,  mirrors  with  blotches 
or  cracks  in  them.  The  insides  of  the  houses  were  as 
gloomy  as  the  outside.  They  were  all  exactly  alike. 
In  each  a  dark  entrance  passage  led  to  narrow  stairs 
going  up  to  bedrooms,  and  to  narrow  steps  going  down 
to  a  basement  kitchen.  The  back  bedroom  looked  out 
on  small,  sooty,  flagged  yards,  where  thin  cats  quar- 
reled, or  sat  on  the  coping  of  the  brick  walls  hoping 
that  sometime  they  might  feel  the  sun;  the  front  rooms 
looked  over  the  noisy  road,  and  through  their  windows 
came  the  roar  and  rattle  of  it.  It  was  shabby  and 
cheerless  on  the  brightest  days,  and  on  foggy  or  rainy 
ones  it  was  the  most  forlorn  place  in  London. 

At  least  that  was  what  one  boy  thought  as  he  stood 
near  the  iron  railings  watching  the  passers-by  on  the 
morning  on  which  this  story  begins,  which  was  also 
the  morning  after  he  had  been  brought  by  his  father 
to  live  as  a  lodger  in  the  back  sitting-room  of  the 
house  No.  7. 

He  was  a  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  his  name  was 
Marco  Loristan,  and  he  was  the  kind  of  boy  people 
look  at  a  second  time  when  they  have  looked  at  him 
4 


LODGERS  AT  No.  7  PHILIBERT  PLACE 

once.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  very  big  boy  —  tall 
for  his  years,  and  with  a  particularly  strong  frame. 
His  shoulders  were  broad  and  his  arms  and  legs  were 
long  and  powerful.  He  was  quite  used  to  hearing 
people  say,  as  they  glanced  at  him,  "  What  a  fine,  big 
lad !  "  And  then  they  always  looked  again  at  his  face. 
It  was  not  an  English  face  or  an  American  one,  and 
was  very  dark  in  coloring.  His  features  were  strong, 
his  black  hair  grew  on  his  head  like  a  mat,  his  eyes 
were  large  and  deep  set,  and  looked  out  between  thick, 
straight,  black  lashes.  He  was  as  un-English  a  boy 
as  one  could  imagine,  and  an  observing  person  would 
have  been  struck  at  once  by  a  sort  of  silent  look  ex- 
pressed by  his  whole  face,  a  look  which  suggested  that 
he  was  not  a  boy  who  talked  much. 

This  look  was  specially  noticeable  this  morning  as  he 
stood  before  the  iron  railings.  The  things  he  was 
thinking  of  were  of  a  kind  likely  to  bring  to  the  face 
of  a  twelve-year-old  boy  an  unboyish  expression. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  long,  hurried  journey  he 
and  his  father  and  their  old  soldier  servant,  Lazarus, 
had  made  during  the  last  few  days  —  the  journey  from 
Russia.  Cramped  in  a  close  third-class  railway  car- 
riage, they  had  dashed  across  the  Continent  as  if  some- 
thing important  or  terrible  were  driving  them,  and 
here  they  were,  settled  in  London  as  if  they  were  going 
to  live  forever  at  No.  7  Philibert  Place.  He  knew, 
however,  that  though  they  might  stay  a  year,  it  was 
just  as  probable  that,  in  the  middle  of  some  night,  his 
5 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

father  or  Lazarus  might  waken  him  from  his  sleep  and 
say,  "  Get  up  —  dress  yourself  quickly.  We  must  go 
at  once."  A  few  days  later,  he  might  be  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, Berlin,  Vienna,  or  Budapest,  huddled  away  in 
some  poor  little  house  as  shabby  and  comfortless  as 
No.  7  Philibert  Place. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  as  he  thought 
of  it  and  watched  the  busses.  His  strange  life  and 
his  close  association  with  his  father  had  made  him 
much  older  than  his  years,  but  he  was  only  a  boy,  after 
all,  and  the  mystery  of  things  sometimes  weighed 
heavily  upon  him,  and  set  him  to  deep  wondering. 

In  not  one  of  the  many  countries  he  knew  had  he 
ever  met  a  boy  whose  life  was  in  the  least  like  his  own. 
Other  boys  had  homes  in  which  they  spent  year  after 
year;  they  went  to  school  regularly,  and  played  with 
other  boys,  and  talked  openly  of  the  things  which  hap- 
pened to  them,  and  the  journeys  they  made.  When  he 
remained  in  a  place  long  enough  to  make  a  few  boy- 
friends, he  knew  he  must  never  forget  that  his  whole 
existence  was  a  sort  of  secret  whose  safety  depended 
upon  his  own  silence  and  discretion. 

This  was  because  of  the  promises  he  had  made  to  his 
father,  and  they  had  been  the  first  thing  he  remem- 
bered. Not  that  he  had  ever  regretted  anything  con- 
nected with  his  father.  He  threw  his  black  head  up 
as  he  thought  of  that.  None  of  the  other  boys  had 
such  a  father,  not  one  of  them.  His  father  was  his 
idol  and  his  chief.  He  had  scarcely  ever  seen  him 
6 


LODGERS  AT  No.  7  PHILIBERT  PLACE 

when  his  clothes  had  not  been  poor  and  shabby,  but 
he  had  also  never  seen  him  when,  despite  his  worn 
coat  and  frayed  linen,  he  had  not  stood  out  among  all 
others  as  more  distinguished  than  the  most  noticeable 
of  them.  When  he  walked  down  a  street,  people 
turned  to  look  at  him  even  oftener  than  they  turned  to 
look  at  Marco,  and  the  boy  felt  as  if  it  was  not  merely 
because  he  was  a  big  man  with  a  handsome,  dark  face, 
but  because  he  looked,  somehow,  as  if  he  had  been 
born  to  command  armies,  and  as  if  no  one  would  think 
of  disobeying  him.  Yet  Marco  had  never  seen  him 
command  any  one,  and  they  had  always  been  poor, 
and  shabbily  dressed,  and  often  enough  ill- fed.  But 
whether  they  were  in  one  country  or  another,  and 
whatsoever  dark  place  they  seemed  to  be  hiding  in,  the 
few  people  they  saw  treated  him  with  a  sort  of  defer- 
ence, and  nearly  always  stood  when  they  were  in  his 
presence,  unless  he  bade  them  sit  down. 

"  It  is  because  they  know  he  is  a  patriot,  and  patriots 
are  respected,"  the  boy  had  told  himself. 

He  himself  wished  to  be  a  patriot,  though  he  had 
never  seen  his  own  country  of  Samavia.  He  knew  it 
well,  however.  His  father  had  talked  to  him  about  it 
ever  since  that  day  when  he  had  made  the  promises. 
He  had  taught  him  to  know  it  by  helping  him  to  study- 
curious  detailed  maps  of  it  —  maps  of  its  cities,  maps 
of  its  mountains,  maps  of  its  roads.  He  had  told  him 
stories  of  the  wrongs  done  its  people,  of  their  suffer- 
ings and  struggles  for  liberty,  and,  above  all,  of  their 
7 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

unconquerable  courage.  When  they  talked  together 
•of  its  history,  Marco's  boy-blood  burned  and  leaped  in 
his  veins,  and  he  always  knew,  by  the  look  in  his  fa- 
ther's eyes,  that  his  blood  burned  also.  His  country- 
men had  been  killed,  they  had  been  robbed,  they  had 
died  by  thousands  of  cruelties  and  starvation,  but  their 
souls  had  never  been  conquered,  and,  through  all  the 
years  during  which  more  powerful  nations  crushed  and 
enslaved  them,  they  never  ceased  to  struggle  to  free 
themselves  and  stand  unfettered  as  Samavians  had 
stood  centuries  before. 

"  Why  do  we  not  live  there?  "  Marco  had  cried  on 
the  day  the  promises  were  made.  "  Why  do  we  not 
go  back  and  fight  ?  When  I  am  a  man,  I  will  be  a  sol- 
dier and  die  for  Samavia." 

"We  are  of  those  who  must  live  for  Samavia  — 
working  day  and  night,"  his  father  had  answered; 
"  denying  ourselves,  training  our  bodies  and  souls, 
using  our  brains,  learning  the  things  which  are  best  to 
be  done  for  our  people  and  our  country.  Even  exiles 
may  be  Samavian  soldiers  —  I  am  one,  you  must  be 
one." 

"Are  we  exiles?"  asked  Marco. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  But  even  if  we  never  set 
foot  on  Samavian  soil,  we  must  give  our  lives  to  it.  I 
have  given  mine  since  I  was  sixteen.  I  shall  give  it 
until  I  die." 

"Have  you  never  lived  there?"  said  Marco. 

A  strange  look  shot  across  his  father's  face. 
8 


He  stood  near  the  iron  railings  watching  the  passers-by 


LODGERS  AT  No.  7  PHILIBERT  PLACE 

"  No,"  he  answered,  and  said  no  more.  Marco, 
watching  him,  knew  he  must  not  ask  the  question  again. 

The  next  words  his  father  said  were  about  the  prom- 
ises. Marco  was  quite  a  little  fellow  at  the  time,  but 
he  understood  the  solemnity  of  them,  and  felt  that  he 
was  being  honored  as  if  he  were  a  man. 

"  When  you  are  a  man,  you  shall  know  all  you  wish 
to  know,"  Loristan  said.  "  Now  you  are  a  child,  and 
your  mind  must  not  be  burdened.  But  you  must  do 
your  part.  A  child  sometimes  forgets  that  words  may 
be  dangerous.  You  must  promise  never  to  forget  this. 
Wheresoever  you  are,  if  you  have  playmates,  you  must 
remember  to  be  silent  about  many  things.  You  must 
not  speak  of  what  I  do,  or  of  the  people  who  come  to 
see  me.  You  must  not  mention  the  things  in  your 
life  which  make  it  different  from  the  lives  of  other 
boys.  You  must  keep  in  your  mind  that  a  secret  exists 
which  a  chance  foolish  word  might  betray.  You  are  a 
Samavian,  and  there  have  been  Samavians  who  have 
died  a  thousand  deaths  rather  than  betray  a  secret. 
You  must  learn  to  obey  without  question,  as  if  you 
were  a  soldier.  Now  you  must  take  your  oath  of 
allegiance." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  to  a  corner  of  the 
room.  He  knelt  down,  turned  back  the  carpet,  lifted 
a  plank,  and  took  something  from  beneath  it.  It  was 
a  sword,  and,  as  he  came  back  to  Marco,  he  drew  it  out 
from  its  sheath.  The  child's  strong,  little  body  stiff- 
ened and  drew  itself  up,  his  large,  deep  eyes  flashed. 
9 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

He  was  to  take  his  oath  of  allegiance  upon  a  sword  as 
if  he  were  a  man.  He  did  not  know  that  his  small 
hand  opened  and  shut  with  a  fierce  understanding  grip 
because  those  of  his  blood  had  for  long  centuries  past 
carried  swords  and  fought  with  them. 

Loristan  gave  him  the  big  bared  weapon,  and  stood 
erect  before  him. 

"  Repeat  these  words  atter  me  sentence  by  sen- 
tence ! "  he  commanded. 

And  as  he  spoke  them  Marco  echoed  each  one  loudly 
and  clearly. 

"  The  sword  in  my  hand  —  for  Samavia ! 

"  The  heart  in  my  breast  —  for  Samavia ! 

"  The  swiftness  of  my  sight,  the  thought  of  my 
brain,  the  life  of  my  life —  for  Samavia. 

"  Here  grows  a  man  for  Samavia. 

"  God  be  thanked !  " 

Then  Loristan  put  his  hand  on  the  child's  shoulder, 
and  his  dark  face  looked  almost  fiercely  proud. 

"  From  this  hour,"  he  said,  "  you  and  I  are  com- 
rades at  arms." 

And  from  that  day  to  the  one  on  which  he  stood 
beside  the  broken  iron  railings  of  No.  7  Philibert  Place, 
Marco  had  not  forgotten  for  one  hour. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

A   YOUNG    CITIZEN    OF   THE    WORLD 

HE  had  been  in  London  more  than  once  before, 
but  not  to  the  lodgings  in  Philibert  Place. 
When  he  was  brought  a  second  or  third  time  to  a  town 
or  city,  he  always  knew  that  the  house  he  was  taken 
to  would  be  in  a  quarter  new  to  him,  and  he  should 
not  see  again  the  people  he  had  seen  before.  Such 
slight  links  of  acquaintance  as  sometimes  formed  them- 
selves between  him  and  other  children  as  shabby  and 
poor  as  himself  were  easily  broken.  His  father,  how- 
ever, had  never  forbidden  him  to  make  chance  acquaint- 
ances. He  had,  in  fact,  told  him  that  he  had  reasons 
for  not  wishing  him  to  hold  himself  aloof  from  other 
boys.  The  only  barrier  which  must  exist  between 
them  must  be  the  barrier  of  silence  concerning  his  wan- 
derings from  country  to  country.  Other  boys  as  poor 
as  he  was  did  not  make  constant  journeys,  therefore 
they  would  miss  nothing  from  his  boyish  talk  when  he 
omitted  all  mention  of  his.  When  he  was  in  Russia, 
he  must  speak  only  of  Russian  places  and  Russian  peo- 
ple and  customs.  When  he  was  in  France,  Germany, 
Austria,  or  England,  he  must  do  the  same  thing. 
When  he  had  learned  English,  French,  German,  Italian, 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

and  Russian  he  did  not  know.  He  had  seemed  to 
grow  up  in  the  midst  of  changing  tongues  which  all 
seemed  familiar  to  him,  as  languages  are  familiar  to 
children  who  have  lived  with  them  until  one  scarcely 
seems  less  familiar  than  another.  He  did  remember, 
however,  that  his  father  had  always  been  unswerving 
in  his  attention  to  his  pronunciation  and  method  of 
speaking  the  language  of  any  country  they  chanced  to 
be  living  in. 

"  You  must  not  seem  a  foreigner  in  any  country," 
he  had  said  to  him.  "  It  is  necessary  that  you  should 
not.  But  when  you  are  in  England,  you  must  not 
know  French,  or  German,  or  anything  but  English." 

Once,  when  he  was  seven  or  eight  years  old,  a  boy 
had  asked  him  what  his  father's  work  was. 

"  His  own  father  is  a  carpenter,  and  he  asked  me  if 
my  father  was  one,"  Marco  brought  the  story  to  Loris- 
tan.  "  I  said  you  were  not.  Then  he  asked  if  you 
were  a  shoemaker,  and  another  one  said  you  might  be 
a  bricklayer  or  a  tailor  —  and  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
tell  them."  He  had  been  out  playing  in  a  London 
street,  and  he  put  a  grubby  little  hand  on  his  father's 
arm,  and  clutched  and  almost  fiercely  shook  it.  "  I 
wanted  to  say  that  you  were  not  like  their  fathers,  not 
at  all.  I  knew  you  were  not,  though  you  were  quite 
as  poor.  You  are  not  a  bricklayer  or  a  shoemaker, 
but  a  patriot  —  you  could  not  be  only  a  bricklayer  — 
you !  "  He  said  it  grandly  and  with  a  queer  indigna- 
tion, his  black  head  held  up  and  his  eyes  angry. 


A  YOUNG  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

Loristan  laid  his  hand  against  his  mouth. 

"  Hush !  hush !  "  he  said.  "  Is  it  an  insult  to  a  man 
to  think  he  may  be  a  carpenter  or  make  a  good  suit  of 
clothes?  If  I  could  make  our  clothes,  we  should  go 
better  dressed.  If  I  were  a  shoemaker,  your  toes 
would  not  be  making  their  way  into  the  world  as  they 
are  now."  He  was  smiling,  but  Marco  saw  his  head 
held  itself  high,  too,  and  his  eyes  were  glowing  as  he 
touched  his  shoulder.  "  I  know  you  did  not  tell  them 
I  was  a  patriot,"  he  ended.  "  What  was  it  you  said 
to  them?" 

"  I  remembered  that  you  were  nearly  always  writing 
and  drawing  maps,  and  I  said  you  were  a  writer,  but 
I  did  not  know  what  you  wrote  —  and  that  you  said  it 
was  a  poor  trade.  I  heard  you  say  that  once  to  Laza- 
rus.    Was  that  a  right  thing  to  tell  them?  " 

"Yes.  You  may  always  say  it  if  you  are  asked. 
There  are  poor  fellows  enough  who  write  a  thousand 
different  things  which  bring  them  little  money.  There 
is  nothing  strange  in  my  being  a  writer." 

So  Loristan  answered  him,  and  from  that  time  if, 
by  any  chance,  his  father's  means  of  livelihood  were 
inquired  into,  it  was  simple  enough  and  true  enough  to 
say  that  he  wrote  to  earn  his  bread. 

In  the  first  days  of  strangeness  to  a  new  place,  Marco 
often  walked  a  great  deal.  He  was  strong  and  un- 
tiring, and  it  amused  him  to  wander  through  unknown 
streets,  and  look  at  shops,  and  houses,  and  people. 
He  did  not  confine  himself  to  the  great  thoroughfares, 
13 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

but  liked  to  branch  off  into  the  side  streets  and  odd, 
deserted-looking  squares,  and  even  courts  and  alley- 
ways. He  often  stopped  to  watch  workmen  and  talk 
to  them  if  they  were  friendly.  In  this  way  he  made 
stray  acquaintances  in  his  strollings,  and  learned  a 
good  many  things.  He  had  a  fondness  for  wandering 
musicians,  and,  from  an  old  Italian  who  had  in  his 
youth  been  a  singer  in  opera,  he  had  learned  to  sing  a 
number  of  songs  in  his  strong,  musical  boy-voice.  He 
knew  well  many  of  the  songs  of  the  people  in  several 
countries. 

It  was  very  dull  this  first  morning,  and  he  wished 
that  he  had  something  to  do  or  some  one  to  speak  to. 
To  do  nothing  whatever  is  a  depressing  thing  at  all 
times,  but  perhaps  it  is  more  especially  so  when  one  is 
a  big,  healthy  boy  twelve  years  old.  London  as  he 
saw  it  in  the  Marylebone  Road  seemed  to  him  a  hid- 
eous place.  It  was  murky  and  shabby-looking,  and  full 
of  dreary- faced  people.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  the  same  things,  and  they  always  made  him 
feel  that  he  wished  he  had  something  to  do. 

Suddenly  he  turned  away  from  the  gate  and  went 
into  the  house  to  speak  to  Lazarus.  He  found  him  in 
his  dingy  closet  of  a  room  on  the  fourth  floor  at  the 
back  of  the  house. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk,"  he  announced  to  him. 
"  Please  tell  my  father  if  he  asks  for  me.  He  is  busy, 
and  I  must  not  disturb  him/' 

Lazarus  was  patching  an  old  coat  as  he  often  patched 
14 


A  YOUNG  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

things  —  even  shoes  sometimes.  When  Marco  spoke, 
he  stood  up  at  once  to  answer  him.  He  was  very  ob- 
stinate and  particular  about  certain  forms  of  manner. 
Nothing  would  have  obliged  him  to  remain  seated  when 
Loristan  or  Marco  was  near  him.  Marco  thought  it 
was  because  he  had  been  so  strictly  trained  as  a  sol- 
dier. He  knew  that  his  father  had  had  great  trouble 
to  make  him  lay  aside  his  habit  of  saluting  when  they 
spoke  to  him. 

"  Perhaps,"  Marco  had  heard  Loristan  say  to  him 
almost  severely,  once  when  he  had  forgotten  himself 
and  had  stood  at  salute  while  his  master  passed  through 
a  broken-down  iron  gate  before  an  equally  broken- 
down-looking  lodging-house  — "  perhaps  you  can  force 
yourself  to  remember  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  not 
safe  —  it  is  not  safe!     You  put  us  in  danger!  " 

It  was  evident  that  this  helped  the  good  fellow  to 
control  himself.  Marco  remembered  that  at  the  time 
he  had  actually  turned  pale,  and  had  struck  his  fore- 
head and  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  Samavian  dialect 
in  penitence  and  terror.  But,  though  he  no  longer 
saluted  them  in  public,  he  omitted  no  other  form  of 
reverence  and  ceremony,  and  the  boy  had  become  ac- 
customed to  being  treated  as  if  he  were  anything  but 
the  shabby  lad  whose  very  coat  was  patched  by  the 
old  soldier  who  stood  "  at  attention  "  before  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Lazarus  answered.  "  Where  was  it 
your  wish  to  go  ?  " 

Marco  knitted  his  black  brows  a  little  in  trying  to 
15 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

recall  distinct  memories  of  the  last  time  he  had  been 
in  London. 

"  I  have  been  to  so  many  places,  and  have  seen  so 
many  things  since  I  was  here  before,  that  I  must  begin 
to  learn  again  about  the  streets  and  buildings  I  do  not 
quite  remember." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Lazarus.  "  There  have  been  so 
many.  I  also  forget.  You  were  but  eight  years  old 
when  you  were  last  here." 

"  I  think  I  will  go  and  find  the  royal  palace,  and 
then  I  will  walk  about  and  learn  the  names  of  the 
streets,"  Marco  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Lazarus,  and  this  time  he 
made  his  military  salute. 

Marco  lifted  his  right  hand  in  recognition,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  young  officer.  Most  boys  might  have 
looked  awkward  or  theatrical  in  making  the  gesture, 
but  he  made  it  with  naturalness  and  ease,  because  he 
had  been  familiar  with  the  form  since  his  babyhood. 
He  had  seen  officers  returning  the  salutes  of  their  men 
when  they  encountered  each  other  by  chance  in  the 
streets,  he  had  seen  princes  passing  sentries  on  their 
way  to  their  carriages,  more  august  personages  raising 
the  quiet,  recognizing  hand  to  their  helmets  as  they 
rode  through  applauding  crowds.  He  had  seen  many 
royal  persons  and  many  royal  pageants,  but  always 
only  as  an  ill-clad  boy  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
crowd  of  common  people.  An  energetic  lad,  however 
poor,  cannot  spend  his  days  in  going  from  one  country 
16 


A  YOUNG  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  another  without,  by  mere  every-day  chance,  becom- 
ing familiar  with  the  outer  life  of  royalties  and  courts. 
Marco  had  stood  in  continental  thoroughfares  when 
visiting  emperors  rode  by  with  glittering  soldiery  be- 
fore and  behind  them,  and  a  populace  shouting  courte- 
ous welcomes.  He  knew  where  in  various  great  capi- 
tals the  sentries  stood  before  kingly  or  princely  palaces. 
He  had  seen  certain  royal  faces  often  enough  to  know 
them  well,  and  to  be  ready  to  make  his  salute  when 
particular  quiet  and  unattended  carriages  passed  him 
by. 

"  It  is  well  to  know  them.  It  is  well  to  observe 
everything  and  to  train  one's  self  to  remember  faces 
and  circumstances,"  his  father  had  said.  "If  you  were 
a  young  prince  or  a  young  man  training  for  a  diplo- 
matic career,  you  would  be  taught  to  notice  and  re- 
member people  and  things  as  you  would  be  taught  to 
speak  your  own  language  with  elegance.  Such  obser- 
vation would  be  your  most  practical  accomplishment 
and  greatest  power.  It  is  as  practical  for  one  man  as 
another —  for  a  poor  lad  in  a  patched  coat  as  for  one 
whose  place  is  to  be  in  courts.  As  you  cannot  be  edu- 
cated in  the  ordinary  way,  you  must  learn  from  travel 
and  the  world.  You  must  lose  nothing  —  forget  noth- 
ing." 

It  was  his  father  who  had  taught  him  everything, 

and  he  had  learned  a  great  deal.     Loristan  had  the 

power  of  making  all  things  interesting  to  fascination. 

To  Marco  it  seemed  that  he  knew  everything  in  the 

17 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

world.  They  were  not  rich  enough  to  buy  many  books, 
but  Loristan  knew  the  treasures  of  all  great  cities,  the 
resources  of  the  smallest  towns.  Together  he  and  his 
boy  walked  through  the  endless  galleries  filled  with  the 
wonders  of  the  world,  the  pictures  before  which 
through  centuries  an  unbroken  procession  of  almost 
worshiping  eyes  had  passed  uplifted.  Because  his  fa- 
ther made  the  pictures  seem  the  glowing,  burning  work 
of  still-living  men  whom  the  centuries  could  not  turn 
to  dust,  because  he  could  tell  the  stories  of  their  living 
and  laboring  to  triumph,  stories  of  what  they  felt  and 
suffered  and  were,  the  boy  became  as  familiar  with  the 
old  masters  —  Italian,  German,  French,  Dutch,  Eng- 
lish, Spanish  —  as  he  was  with  most  of  the  countries 
they  had  lived  in.  They  were  not  merely  old  masters 
to  him,  but  men  who  were  great,  men  who  seemed  to 
him  to  have  wielded  beautiful  swords  and  held  high, 
splendid  lights.  His  father  could  not  go  often  with 
him,  but  he  always  took  him  for  the  first  time  to  the 
galleries,  museums,  libraries,  and  historical  places 
which  were  richest  in  treasures  of  art,  beauty,  or  story. 
Then,  having  seen  them  once  through  his  eyes,  Marco 
went  again  and  again  alone,  and  so  grew  intimate  with 
the  wonders  of  the  world.  He  knew  that  he  was 
gratifying  a  wish  of  his  father's  when  he  tried  to  train 
himself  to  observe  all  things  and  forget  nothing. 
These  palaces  of  marvels  were  his  school-rooms,  and 
his  strange  but  rich  education  was  the  most  interesting 
part  of  his  life.  In  time,  he  knew  exactly  the  places 
18 


His  father  made  the  pictures  seem  the  glowing,  burning  work  of 
still-living  men 


A  YOUNG  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

where  the  great  Rembrandts,  Vandykes,  Rubens, 
Raphaels,  Tintorettos,  or  Frans  Hals  hung;  he  knew 
whether  this  masterpiece  or  that  was  in  Vienna,  in 
Paris,  in  Venice,  or  Munich,  or  Rome.  He  knew 
stories  of  splendid  crown  jewels,  of  old  armor,  of 
ancient  crafts,  and  of  Roman  relics  dug  up  from  be- 
neath the  foundations  of  old  German  cities.  Any  boy 
wandering  to  amuse  himself  through  museums  and  pal- 
aces on  "  free  days  "  could  see  what  he  saw,  but  boys 
living  fuller  and  less  lonely  lives  would  have  been  less 
likely  to  concentrate  their  entire  minds  on  what  they 
looked  at,  and  also  less  likely  to  store  away  facts  with 
the  determination  to  be  able  to  recall  at  any  moment 
the  mental  shelf  on  which  they  were  laid.  Having  no 
playmates  and  nothing  to  play  with,  he  began  when  he 
was  a  very  little  fellow  to  make  a  sort  of  game  out  of 
his  rambles  through  picture-galleries,  and  the  places 
which,  whether  they  called  themselves  museums  or 
not,  were  storehouses  or  relics  of  antiquity.  There 
were  always  the  blessed  "  free  days,"  when  he  could 
climb  any  marble  steps,  and  enter  any  great  portal 
without  paying  an  entrance  fee.  Once  inside,  there 
were  plenty  of  plainly  and  poorly  dressed  people  to  be 
seen,  but  there  were  not  often  boys  as  young  as  him- 
self who  were  not  attended  by  older  companions. 
Quiet  and  orderly  as  he  was,  he  often  found  himself 
stared  at.  The  game  he  had  created  for  himself  was 
as  simple  as  it  was  absorbing.  It  was  to  try  how  much 
he  could  remember  and  clearly  describe  to  his  father 
19 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

when  they  sat  together  at  night  and  talked  of  what  he 
had  seen.  These  night  talks  filled  his  happiest  hours. 
He  never  felt  lonely  then,  and  when  his  father  sat 
and  watched  him  with  a  certain  curious  and  deep  atten- 
tion in  his  dark,  reflective  eyes,  the  boy  was  utterly 
comforted  and  content.  Sometimes  he  brought  back 
rough  and  crude  sketches  of  objects  he  wished  to  ask 
questions  about,  and  Loristan  could  always  relate  to 
him  the  full,  rich  story  of  the  thing  he  wanted  to 
know.  They  were  stories  made  so  splendid  and  full 
of  color  in  the  telling  that  Marco  could  not  forget 
them. 


20 


CHAPTER  III 

'    THE    LEGEND    OF   THE   LOST    PRINCE 

AS  he  walked  through  the  streets,  he  was  thinking 
of  one  of  these  stories.  It  was  one  he  had 
heard  first  when  he  was  very  young,  and  it  had  so 
seized  upon  his  imagination  that  he  had  asked  often 
for  it.  It  was,  indeed,  a  part  of  the  long-past  history 
of  Samavia,  and  he  had  loved  it  for  that  reason. 
Lazarus  had  often  told  it  to  him,  sometimes  adding 
much  detail,  but  he  had  always  liked  best  his  father's 
version,  which  seemed  a  thrilling  and  living  thing. 
On  their  journey  from  Russia,  during  an  hour  when 
they  had  been  forced  to  wait  in  a  cold  wayside  station 
and  had  found  the  time  long,  Loristan  had  discussed  it 
with  him.  He  always  found  some  such  way  of  mak- 
ing hard  and  comfortless  hours  easier  to  live  through. 

"  Fine,  big  lad  —  for  a  foreigner,"  Marco  heard  a 
man  say  to  his  companion  as  he  passed  them  this  morn- 
ing.    "  Looks  like  a  Pole  or  a  Russian." 

It  was  this  which  had  led  his  thoughts  back  to  the 
story  of  the  Lost  Prince.  He  knew  that  most  of  the 
people  who  looked  at  him  and  called  him  a  "  for- 
eigner "  had  not  even  heard  of  Samavia.  Those  who 
chanced  to  recall  its  existence  knew  of  it  only  as  a  small 
21 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

fierce  country,  so  placed  upon  the  map  that  the  larger 
countries  which  were  its  neighbors  felt  they  must  con- 
trol and  keep  it  in  order,  and  therefore  made  incur- 
sions into  it,  and  fought  its  people  and  each  other  for 
possession.  But  it  had  not  been  always  so.  It  was 
an  old,  old  country,  and  hundreds  of  years  ago  it  had 
been  as  celebrated  for  its  peaceful  happiness  and  wealth 
as  for  its  beauty.  It  was  often  said  that  it  was  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  places  in  the  world.  A  favorite 
Samavian  legend  was  that  it  had  been  the  site  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  In  those  past  centuries,  its  people 
had  been  of  such  great  stature,  physical  beauty,  and 
strength,  that  they  had  been  like  a  race  of  noble  giants. 
They  were  in  those  days  a  pastoral  people,  whose  rich 
crops  and  splendid  flocks  and  herds  were  the  envy  of 
less  fertile  countries.  Among  the  shepherds  and 
herdsmen  there  were  poets  who  sang  their  own  songs 
when  they  piped  among  their  sheep  upon  the  moun- 
tain sides  and  in  the  flower-thick  valleys.  Their  songs 
had  been  about  patriotism  and  bravery,  and  faithfulness 
to  their  chieftains  and  their  country.  The  simple  cour- 
tesy of  the  poorest  peasant  was  as  stately  as  the  man- 
ner of  a  noble.  But  that,  as  Loristan  had  said  with 
a  tired  smile,  had  been  before  they  had  had  time  to 
outlive  and  forget  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Five  hundred 
years  ago,  there  had  succeeded  to  the  throne  a  king 
who  was  bad  and  weak.  His  father  had  lived  to  be 
ninety  years  old,  and  his  son  had  grown  tired  of  wait- 
ing in  Samavia  for  his  crown.     He  had  gone  out  into 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  world,  and  visited  other  countries  and  their  courts. 
When  he  returned  and  became  king,  he  lived  as  no 
Samavian  king  had  lived  before.  He  was  an  extrava- 
gant, vicious  man  of  furious  temper  and  bitter  jeal- 
ousies. He  was  jealous  of  the  larger  courts  and  coun- 
tries he  had  seen,  and  tried  to  introduce  their  customs 
and  their  ambitions.  He  ended  by  introducing  their 
worst  faults  and  vices.  There  arose  political  quarrels 
and  savage  new  factions.  Money  was  squandered 
until  poverty  began  for  the  first  time  to  stare  the  coun- 
try in  the  face.  The  big  Samavians,  after  their  first 
stupefaction,  broke  forth  into  furious  rage.  There 
were  mobs  and  riots,  then  bloody  battles.  Since  it 
was  the  king  who  had  worked  this  wrong,  they  would 
have  none  of  him.  They  would  depose  him  and  make 
his  son  king  in  his  place.  It  was  at  this  part  of  the 
story  that  Marco  was  always  most  deeply  interested. 
The  young  prince  was  totally  unlike  his  father.  He 
was  a  true  royal  Samavian.  He  was  bigger  and 
stronger  for  his  age  than  any  man  in  the  country,  and 
he  was  as  handsome  as  a  young  viking  god.  More 
than  this,  he  had  a  lion's  heart,  and  before  he  was  six- 
teen, the  shepherds  and  herdsmen  had  already  begun 
to  make  songs  about  his  young  valor,  and  his  kingly 
courtesy,  and  generous  kindness.  Not  only  the  shep- 
herds and  herdsmen  sang  them,  but  the  people  in  the 
streets.  The  king,  his  father,  had  always  been  jealous 
of  him,  even  when  he  was  only  a  beautiful,  stately 
child  whom  the  people  roared  with  joy  to  see  as  he 
23 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

rode  through  the  streets.  When  he  returned  from  his 
journey ings  and  found  him  a  splendid  youth,  he  de- 
tested him.  When  the  people  began  to  clamor  and 
demand  that  he  himself  should  abdicate,  he  became 
insane  with  rage,  and  committed  such  cruelties  that  the 
people  ran  mad  themselves.  One  day  they  stormed 
the  palace,  killed  and  overpowered  the  guards,  and, 
rushing  into  the  royal  apartments,  burst  in  upon  the 
king  as  he  shuddered  green  with  terror  and  fury  in  his 
private  room.  He  was  king  no  more,  and  must  leave 
the  country,  they  vowed,  as  they  closed  round  him 
with  bared  weapons  and  shook  them  in  his  face. 
Where  was  the  prince?  They  must  see  him  and  tell 
him  their  ultimatum.  It  was  he  whom  they  wanted  for 
a  king.  They  trusted  him  and  would  obey  him.  They 
began  to  shout  aloud  his  name,  calling  him  in  a  sort 
of  chant  in  unison,  "  Prince  Ivor  —  Prince  Ivor  — 
Prince  Ivor !  "  But  no  answer  came.  The  people  of 
the  palace  had  hidden  themselves,  and  the  place  was 
utterly  silent. 

The  king,  despite  his  terror,  could  not  help  but  sneer. 

"  Call  him  again,"  he  said.  "  He  is  afraid  to  come 
out  of  his  hole !  " 

A  savage  fellow  from  the  mountain  fastnesses  struck 
him  on  the  mouth. 

"  He  afraid!  "  he  shouted.  "  If  he  does  not  come, 
it  is  because  thou  hast  killed  him  —  and  thou  art  a  dead 
man!" 

This  set  them  aflame  with  hotter  burning.  They 
24 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

broke  away,  leaving  three  on  guard,  and  ran  about  the 
empty  palace  rooms  shouting  the  prince's  name.  But 
there  was  no  answer.  They  sought  him  in  a  frenzy, 
bursting  open  doors  and  flinging  down  every  obstacle 
in  their  way.  A  page,  found  hidden  in  a  closet,  owned 
that  he  had  seen  His  Royal  Highness  pass  through  a 
corridor  early  in  the  morning.  He  had  been  softly 
singing  to  himself  one  of  the  shepherds'  songs. 

And  in  this  strange  way  out  of  the  history  of  Sa- 
mavia,  five  hundred  years  before  Marco's  day,  the 
young  prince  had  walked  —  singing  softly  to  himself 
the  old  song  of  Samavia's  beauty  and  happiness.  For 
he  was  never  seen  again. 

In  every  nook  and  cranny,  high  and  low,  they  sought 
for  him,  believing  that  the  king  himself  had  made  him 
prisoner  in  some  secret  place,  or  had  privately  had  him 
killed.  The  fury  of  the  people  grew  to  frenzy.  There 
were  new  risings,  and  every  few  days  the  palace  was 
attacked  and  searched  again.  But  no  trace  of  the 
prince  was  found.  He  had  vanished  as  a  star  van- 
ishes when  it  drops  from  its  place  in  the  sky.  During 
a  riot  in  the  palace,  when  a  last  fruitless  search  was 
made,  the  king  himself  was  killed.  A  powerful  noble 
who  headed  one  of  the  uprisings  made  himself  king  in 
his  place.  From  that  time,  the  once  splendid  little 
kingdom  was  like  a  bone  fought  for  by  dogs.  Its  pas- 
toral peace  was  forgotten.  It  was  torn  and  worried 
and  shaken  by  stronger  countries.  It  tore  and  worried 
itself  with  internal  fights.  It  assassinated  kings  and 
25 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

created  new  ones.  No  man  was  sure  in  his  youth  what 
ruler  his  maturity  would  live  under,  or  whether  his 
children  would  die  in  useless  fights,  or  through  stress 
of  poverty  and  cruel,  useless  laws.  There  were  no 
more  shepherds  and  herdsmen  who  were  poets,  but  on 
the  mountain  sides  and  in  the  valleys  sometimes  some 
of  the  old  songs  were  sung.  Those  most  beloved  were 
songs  about  a  Lost  Prince  whose  name  had  been  Ivor. 
If  he  had  been  king,  he  would  have  saved  Samavia,  the 
verses  said,  and  all  brave  hearts  believed  that  he  would 
still  return.  In  the  modern  cities,  one  of  the  jocular 
cynical  sayings  was,  "  Yes,  that  will  happen  when 
Prince  Ivor  comes  again." 

In  his  more  childish  days,  Marco  had  been  bitterly 
troubled  by  the  unsolved  mystery.  Where  had  he 
gone  —  the  Lost  Prince  ?  Had  he  been  killed,  or  had 
he  been  hidden  away  in  a  dungeon?  But  he  was  so 
big  and  brave,  he  would  have  broken  out  of  any  dun- 
geon. The  boy  had  invented  for  himself  a  dozen  end- 
ings to  the  story. 

"  Did  no  one  ever  find  his  sword  or  his  cap  —  or 
hear  anything  or  guess  anything  about  him  ever  — 
ever  —  ever?  "  he  would  say  restlessly  again  and  again. 

One  winter's  night,  as  they  sat  together  before  a 
small  fire  in  a  cold  room  in  a  cold  city  in  Austria,  he 
had  been  so  eager  and  asked  so  many  searching  ques- 
tions, that  his  father  gave  him  an  answer  he  had  never 
given  him  before,  and  which  was  a  sort  of  ending  to 
the  story,  though  not  a  satisfying  one: 
.     26 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Everybody  guessed  as  you  are  guessing.  A  few 
very  old  shepherds  in  the  mountains  who  like  to  be- 
lieve ancient  histories  relate  a  story  which  most  people 
consider  a  kind  of  legend.  It  is  that  almost  a  hundred 
years  after  the  prince  was  lost,  an  old  shepherd  told  a 
story  his  long-dead  father  had  confided  to  him  in  secret 
just  before  he  died.  The  father  had  said  that,  going 
out  in  the  early  morning  on  the  mountain  side,  he  had 
found  in  the  forest  what  he  at  first  thought  to  be  the 
dead  body  of  a  beautiful,  boyish,  young  huntsman. 
Some  enemy  had  plainly  attacked  him  from  behind  and 
believed  he  had  killed  him.  He  was,  however,  not 
quite  dead,  and  the  shepherd  dragged  him  into  a  cave 
where  he  himself  often  took  refuge  from  storms  with 
his  flocks.  Since  there  was  such  riot  and  disorder  in 
the  city,  he  was  afraid  to  speak  of  what  he  had  found; 
and,  by  the  time  he  discovered  that  he  was  harboring 
the  prince,  the  king  had  already  been  killed,  and  an 
even  worse  man  had  taken  possession  of  his  throne, 
and  ruled  Samavia  with  a  blood-stained,  iron  hand. 
To  the  terrified  and  simple  peasant  the  safest  thing 
seemed  to  get  the  wounded  youth  out  of  the  country 
before  there  was  any  chance  of  his  being  discovered 
and  murdered  outright,  as  he  would  surely  be.  The 
cave  in  which  he  was  hidden  was  not  far  from  the 
frontier,  and  while  he  was  still  so  weak  that  he  was 
hardly  conscious  of  what  befell  him,  he  was  smuggled 
across  it  in  a  cart  loaded  with  sheepskins,  and  left  with 
some  kind  monks  who  did  not  know  .his  rank  or  name. 
27 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  shepherd  went  back  to  his  flocks  and  his  moun- 
tains, and  lived  and  died  among  them,  always  in  terror 
of  the  changing  rulers  and  their  savage  battles  with 
each  other.  The  mountaineers  said  among  themselves, 
as  the  generations  succeeded  each  other,  that  the  Lost 
Prince  must  have  died  young,  because  otherwise  he 
would  have  come  back  to  his  country  and  tried  to  re- 
store its  good,  bygone  days." 

"  Yes,  he  would  have  come,"  Marco  said. 

"  He  would  have  come  if  he  had  seen  that  he  could 
help  his  people,"  Loristan  answered,  as  if  he  were 
not  reflecting  on  a  story  which  was  probably  only  a 
kind  of  legend.  "  But  he  was  very  young,  and 
Samavia  was  in  the  hands  of  the  new  dynasty,  and 
filled  with  his  enemies.  He  could  not  have  crossed 
the  frontier  without  an  army.  Still,  I  think  he  died 
young." 

It  was  of  this  story  that  Marco  was  thinking  as  he 
walked,  and  perhaps  the  thoughts  that  filled  his  mind 
expressed  themselves  in  his  face  in  some  way  which 
attracted  attention.  As  he  was  nearing  Buckingham 
Palace,  a  distinguished-looking,  well-dressed  man  with 
clever  eyes  caught  sight  of  him,  and,  after  looking  at 
him  keenly,  slackened  his  pace  as  he  approached  him 
from  the  opposite  direction.  An  observer  might  have 
thought  he  saw  something  which  puzzled  and  surprised 
him.  Marco  did  n't  see  him  at  all,  and  still  moved 
forward,  thinking  of  the  shepherds  and  the  prince. 
The  well-dressed  man  began  to  walk  still  more  slowly. 
28 


He  was  the  man  who  had  spoken  to  him  in  Samavian 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

When  he  was  quite  close  to  Marco,  he  stopped  and 
spoke  to  him  —  in  the  Samavian  language. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  asked. 

Marco's  training  from  his  earliest  childhood  had 
been  an  extraordinary  thing.  His  love  for  his  father 
had  made  it  simple  and  natural  to  him,  and  he  had 
never  questioned  the  reason  for  it.  As  he  had  been 
taught  to  keep  silence,  he  had  been  taught  to  control 
the  expression  of  his  face  and  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
and,  above  all,  never  to  allow  himself  to  look  startled. 
But  for  this  he  might  have  started  at  the  extraordinary 
sound  of  the  Samavian  words  suddenly  uttered  in  a 
London  street  by  an  English  gentleman.  He  might 
even  have  answered  the  question  in  Samavian  himself. 
But  he  did  not.  He  courteously  lifted  his  cap  and 
replied  in  English : 

"  Excuse  me  ?  " 

The  gentleman's  clever  eyes  scrutinized  him  keenly. 
Then  he  also  spoke  in  English. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  understand?  I  asked  your 
name  because  you  are  very  like  a  Samavian  I  know," 
he  said. 

"  I  am  Marco  Loristan,"  the  boy  answered  him. 

The  man  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  That  is  not  the  name,"  he  said.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don, my  boy." 

He  was  about  to  go  on,  and  had  indeed  taken  a  cou- 
ple of  steps  away,  when  he  paused  and  turned  to  him 
again. 

29 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

'  "  You  may  tell  your  father  that  you  are  a  very  well- 
trained  lad.  I  wanted  to  find  out  for  myself."  And 
he  went  on. 

Marco  felt  that  his  heart  beat  a  little  quickly.  This 
was  one  of  several  incidents  which  had  happened  dur- 
ing the  last  three  years,  and  made  him  feel  that  he  was 
living  among  things  so  mysterious  that  their  very  mys- 
tery hinted  at  danger.  But  he  himself  had  never  be- 
fore seemed  involved  in  them.  Why  should  it  matter 
that  he  was  well  behaved  ?  Then  he  remembered  some- 
thing. The  man  had  not  said  "  well-behaved,"  he  had 
said  "  well-trained."  Well-trained  in  what  way?  He 
felt  his  forehead  prickle  slightly  as  he  thought  of  the 
smiling,  keen  look  which  set  itself  so  straight  upon  him. 
Had  he  spoken  to  him  in  Samavian  for  an  experiment, 
to  see  if  he  would  be  startled  into  forgetting  that  he 
had  been  trained  to  seem  to  know  only  the  language  of 
the  country  he  was  temporarily  living  in  ?  But  he  had 
not  forgotten.  He  had  remembered  well,  and  was 
thankful  that  he  had  betrayed  nothing.  "  Even  exiles 
may  be  Samavian  soldiers.  I  am  one.  You  must  be 
one,"  his  father  had  said  on  that  day  long  ago  when 
he  had  made  him  take  his  oath.  Perhaps  remembering 
his  training  was  being  a  soldier.  Never  had  Samavia 
needed  help  as  she  needed  it  to-day.  Two  years  be- 
fore, a  rival  claimant  to  the  throne  had  assassinated 
the  then  reigning  king  and  his  sons,  and  since  then, 
bloody  war  and  tumult  had  raged.  The  new  king  was 
a  powerful  man,  and  had  a  great  following  of  the 
30 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

worst  and  most  self-seeking  of  the  people.  Neighbor- 
ing countries  had  interfered  for  their  own  welfare's 
sake,  and  the  newspapers  had  been  full  of  stories  of 
savage  fighting  and  atrocities,  and  of  starving  peasants. 

Marco  had  late  one  evening  entered  their  lodgings 
to  find  Loristan  walking  to  and  fro  like  a  lion  in  a 
cage,  a  paper  crushed  and  torn  in  his  hands,  and  his 
eyes  blazing.  He  had  been  reading  of  cruelties 
wrought  upon  innocent  peasants  and  women  and  chil- 
dren. Lazarus  was  standing  staring  at  him  with  huge 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks.  When  Marco  opened 
the  door,  the  old  soldier  strode  over  to  him,  turned 
him  about,  and  led  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  Pardon,  sir,  pardon !  "  he  sobbed.  "  No  one  must 
see  him,  not  even  you.     He  suffers  too  horribly." 

He  stood  by  a  chair  in  Marco's  own  small  bedroom, 
where  he  half  pushed,  half  led  him.  He  bent  his  griz- 
zled head,  and  wept  like  a  beaten  child. 

"  Dear  God  of  those  who  are  in  pain,  assuredly  it  is 
now  the  time  to  give  back  to  us  our  Lost  Prince !  "  he 
said,  and  Marco  knew  the  words  were  a  prayer,  and 
wondered  at  the  frenzied  intensity  of  it,  because  it 
seemed  so  wild  a  thing  to  pray  for  the  return  of  a 
youth  who  had  died  five  hundred  years  before. 

When  he  reached  the  palace,  he  was  still  thinking 
of  the  man  who  had  spoken  to  him.  He  was  thinking 
of  him  even  as  he  looked  at  the  majestic  gray  stone 
building  and  counted  the  number  of  its  stories  and 
windows.  He  walked  round  it  that  he  might  make  a 
3i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

note  in  his  memory  of  its  size  and  form  and  its  en- 
trances, and  guess  at  the  size  of  its  gardens.  This  he 
did  because  it  was  part  of  his  game,  and  part  of  his 
strange  training. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  front,  he  saw  that  in  the 
great  entrance  court  within  the  high  iron  railings  an 
elegant  but  quiet-looking  closed  carriage  was  drawing 
up  before  the  doorway.  Marco  stood  and  watched 
with  interest  to  see  who  would  come  out  and  enter  it. 
He  knew  that  kings  and  emperors  who  were  not  on 
parade  looked  merely  like  well-dressed  private  gentle- 
men, and  often  chose  to  go  out  as  simply  and  quietly 
as  other  men.  So  he  thought  that,  perhaps,  if  he 
waited,  he  might  see  one  of  those  well-known  faces 
which  represent  the  highest  rank  and  power  in  a  mon- 
archical country,  and  which  in  times  gone  by  had  also 
represented  the  power  over  human  life  and  death  and 
liberty. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  tell  my  father  that  I 
have  seen  the  King  and  know  his  face,  as  I  know  the 
faces  of  the  czar  and  the  two  emperors." 

There  was  a  little  movement  among  the  tall  men- 
servants  in  the  royal  scarlet  liveries,  and  an  elderly 
man  descended  the  steps  attended  by  another  who 
walked  behind  him.  He  entered  the  carriage,  the 
other  man  followed  him,  the  door  was  closed,  and  the 
carriage  drove  through  the  entrance  gates,  where  the 
sentries  saluted. 

Marco  was  near  enough  to  see  distinctly.  The  two 
32 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  PRINCE 

men  were  talking  as  if  interested.  The  face  of  the 
one  farthest  from  him  was  the  face  he  had  often  seen 
in  shop-windows  and  newspapers.  The  boy  made  his 
quick,  formal  salute.  It  was  the  King;  and,  as  he 
smiled  and  acknowledged  his  greeting,  he  spoke  to  his 
companion. 

"  That  fine  lad  salutes  as  if  he  belonged  to  the 
army,"  was  what  he  said,  though  Marco  could  not  hear 
him. 

His  companion  leaned  forward  to  look  through  the 
window.  When  he  caught  sight  of  Marco,  a  singular 
expression  crossed  his  face. 

"  He  does  belong  to  an  army,  sir,"  he  answered, 
"  though  he  does  not  know  it.  His  name  is  Marco 
Loristan." 

Then  Marco  saw  him  plainly  for  the  first  time.  He 
was  the  man  with  the  keen  eyes  who  had  spoken  to 
him  in  Samavian. 


33 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   RAT 

MARCO  would  have  wondered  very  much  if  he 
had  heard  the  words,  but,  as  he  did  not  hear 
them,  he  turned  toward  home  wondering  at  something 
else.  A  man  who  was  in  intimate  attendance  on  a 
king  must  be  a  person  of  importance.  He  no  doubt 
knew  many  things  not  only  of  his  own  ruler's  country, 
but  of  the  countries  of  other  kings.  But  so  few  had 
really  known  anything  of  poor  little  Samavia  until 
the  newspapers  had  begun  to  tell  them  of  the  horrors 
of  its  war  —  and  who  but  a  Samavian  could  speak  its 
language  ?  It  would  be  an  interesting  thing  to  tell  his 
father  —  that  a  man  who  knew  the  king  had  spoken 
to  him  in  Samavian,  and  had  sent  that  curious  mes- 
sage. 

Later  he  found  himself  passing  a  side  street  and 
looked  up  it.  It  was  so  narrow,  and  on  either  side  of 
it  were  such  old,  tall,  and  sloping-walled  houses  that 
it  attracted  his  attention.  It  looked  as  if  a  bit  of  old 
London  had  been  left  to  stand  while  newer  places 
grew  up  and  hid  it  from  view.  This  was  the  kind  of 
street  he  liked  to  pass  through  for  curiosity's  sake. 
34 


THE  RAT 

He  knew  many  of  them  in  the  old  quarters  of  many- 
cities.  He  had  lived  in  some  of  them.  He  could  find 
his  way  home  from  the  other  end  of  it.  Another  thing 
than  its  queerness  attracted  him.  He  heard  a  clamor 
of  boys'  voices,  and  he  wanted  to  see  what  they  were 
doing.  Sometimes,  when  he  had  reached  a  new  place 
and  had  had  that  lonely  feeling,  he  had  followed  some 
boyish  clamor  of  play  or  wrangling,  and  had  found  a 
temporary  friend  or  so. 

Half-way  to  the  street's  end  there  was  an  arched 
brick  passage.  The  sound  of  the  voices  came  from 
there  —  one  of  them  high,  and  thinner  and  shriller 
than  the  rest.  Marco  tramped  up  to  the  arch  and 
looked  down  through  the  passage.  It  opened  on  to  a 
gray  flagged  space,  shut  in  by  the  railings  of  a  black, 
deserted,  and  ancient  graveyard  behind  a  venerable 
church  which  turned  its  face  toward  some  other  street. 
The  boys  were  not  playing,  but  listening  to  one  of 
their  number  who  was  reading  to  them  from  a  news- 
paper. 

Marco  walked  down  the  passage  and  listened  also, 
standing  in  the  dark  arched  outlet  at  its  end  and 
watching  the  boy  who  read.  He  was  a  strange  little 
creature  with  a  big  forehead,  and  deep  eyes  which 
were  curiously  sharp.  But  this  was  not  all.  He  had 
a  hunch  back,  his  legs  seemed  small  and  crooked.  He 
sat  with  them  crossed  before  him  on  a  rough  wooden 
platform  set  on  low  wheels,  on  which  he  evidently 
pushed  himself  about.  Near  him  were  a  number  of 
35 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

sticks  stacked  together  as  if  they  were  rifles.  One  of 
the  first  things  that  Marco  noticed  was  that  he  had  a 
savage  little  face  marked  with  lines  as  if  he  had  been 
angry  all  his  life. 

"  Hold  your  tongues,  you  fools ! "  he  shrilled  out  to 
some  boys  who  interrupted  him.  "  Don't  you  want 
to  know  anything,  you  ignorant  swine?  " 

He  was  as  ill-dressed  as  the  rest  of  them,  but  he  did 
not  speak  in  the  Cockney  dialect.  If  he  was  of  the 
riffraff  of  the  streets,  as  his  companions  were,  he  was 
somehow  different. 

Then  he,  by  chance,  saw  Marco,  who  was  standing 
in  the  arched  end  of  the  passage. 

"What  are  you  doing  there  listening?"  he  shouted, 
and  at  once  stooped  to  pick  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at 
him.  The  stone  hit  Marco's  shoulder,  but  it  did  not 
hurt  him  much.  What  he  did  not  like  was  that  an- 
other lad  should  want  to  throw  something  at  him  be- 
fore they  had  even  exchanged  boy-signs.  He  also  did 
not  like  the  fact  that  two  other  boys  promptly  took 
the  matter  up  by  bending  down  to  pick  up  stones  also. 

He  walked  forward  straight  into  the  group  and 
stopped  close  to  the  hunchback. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  he  asked,  in  his 
rather  deep  young  voice. 

He  was  big  and  strong-looking  enough  to  suggest 

that  he  was  not  a  boy  it  would  be  easy  to  dispose  of, 

but  it  was  not  that  which  made  the  group  stand  still  a 

moment  to  stare  at  him.     It  was  something  in  himself 

3^ 


THE  RAT 

—  half  of  it  a  kind  of  impartial  lack  of  anything  like 
irritation  at  the  stone-throwing.  It  was  as  if  it  had 
not  mattered  to  him  in  the  least.  It  had  not  made 
him  feel  angry  or  insulted.  He  was  only  rather  curi- 
ous about  it.  Because  he  was  clean,  and  his  hair  and 
his  shabby  clothes  were  brushed,  the  first  impression 
given  by  his  appearance  as  he  stood  in  the  archway 
was  that  he  was  a  young  "  toff  "  poking  his  nose  where 
it  was  not  wanted ;  but,  as  he  drew  near,  they  saw  that 
the  well-brushed  clothes  were  worn,  and  there  were 
patches  on  his  shoes. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  he  asked,  and  he 
asked  it  merely  as  if  he  wanted  to  find  out  the  reason. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  have  you  swells  dropping  in 
to  my  club  as  if  it  was  your  own,"  said  the  hunch- 
back. 

"  I  'm  not  a  swell,  and  I  did  n't  know  it  was  a  club," 
Marco  answered.  "  I  heard  boys,  and  I  thought  I  'd 
come  and  look.  When  I  heard  you  reading  about  Sa- 
mavia,  I  wanted  to  hear." 

He  looked  at  the  reader  with  his  silent-expressioned 
eyes. 

"  You  need  n't  have  thrown  a  stone,"  he  added. 
"  They  don't  do  it  at  men's  clubs.     I  '11  go  away." 

He  turned  about  as  if  he  were  going,  but,  before  he 
had  taken  three  steps,  the  hunchback  hailed  him  un- 
ceremoniously. 

"Hi!"  he  called  out.     "Hi,  you!" 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  said  Marco. 
37 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  I  bet  you  don't  know  where  Samavia  is,  or  what 
they  're  fighting  about."  The  hunchback  threw  the 
words  at  him. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  It 's  north  of  Beltrazo  and  east  of 
Jiardasia,  and  they  are  fighting  because  one  party  has 
assassinated  King  Maran,  and  the  other  will  not  let 
them  crown  Nicola  Iarovitch.  And  why  should 
they?  He's  a  brigand,  and  hasn't  a  drop  of  royal 
blood  in  him." 

"  Oh !  "  reluctantly  admitted  the  hunchback.  "  You 
do  know  that  much,  do  you?     Come  back  here." 

Marco  turned  back,  while  the  boys  still  stared.  It 
was  as  if  two  leaders  or  generals  were  meeting  for  the 
first  time,  and  the  rabble,  looking  on,  wondered  what 
would  come  of  their  encounter. 

"  The  Samavians  of  the  Iarovitch  party  are  a  bad 
lot  and  want  only  bad  things,"  said  Marco,  speaking 
first.  "  They  care  nothing  for  Samavia.  They  only 
care  for  money  and  the  power  to  make  laws  which  will 
serve  them  and  crush  everybody  else.  They  know 
Nicola  is  a  weak  man,  and  that,  if  they  can  crown  him 
king,  they  can  make  him  do  what  they  like." 

The  fact  that  he  spoke  first,  and  that,  though  he 
spoke  in  a  steady  boyish  voice  without  swagger,  he 
somehow  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  they  would 
listen,  made  his  place  for  him  at  once.  Boys  are  im- 
pressionable creatures,  and  they  know  a  leader  when 
they  see  him.  The  hunchback  fixed  glittering  eyes  on 
him.  The  rabble  began  to  murmur. 
38 


THE  RAT 

"  Rat !  Rat !  "  several  voices  cried  at  once  in  good 
strong  Cockney.     "  Arst  'im  some  more,  Rat!  " 

"Is  that  what  they  call  you?"  Marco  asked  the 
hunchback. 

"  It 's  what  I  called  myself,"  he  answered  resent- 
fully. "  '  The  Rat.'  Look  at  me !  Crawling  round 
on  the  ground  like  this!     Look  at  me!  " 

He  made  a  gesture  ordering  his  followers  to  move 
aside,  and  began  to  push  himself  rapidly,  with  queer 
darts  this  side  and  that,  round  the  inclosure.  He  bent 
his  head  and  body,  and  twisted  his  face,  and  made 
strange  animal-like  movements.  He  even  uttered 
sharp  squeaks  as  he  rushed  here  and  there  —  as  a  rat 
might  have  done  when  it  was  being  hunted.  He  did 
it  as  if  he  were  displaying  an  accomplishment,  and  his 
followers'  laughter  was  applause. 

"  Was  n't  I  like  a  rat?  "  he  demanded,  when  he  sud- 
denly stopped. 

"  You  made  yourself  like  one  on  purpose,"  Marco 
answered.     "  You  do  it  for  fun." 

"  Not  so  much  fun,"  said  The  Rat.  "  I  feel  like 
one.  Every  one  's  my  enemy.  I  'm  vermin.  I  can't 
fight  or  defend  myself  unless  I  bite.  I  can  bite, 
though."  And  he  showed  two  rows  of  fierce,  strong, 
white  teeth,  sharper  at  the  points  than  human  teeth 
usually  are.  "  I  bite  my  father  when  he  gets  drunk 
and  beats  me.  I  've  bitten  him  till  he  's  learned  to  re- 
member." He  laughed  a  shrill,  squeaking  laugh. 
"  He  has  n't  tried  it  for  three  months  —  even  when  he 
39 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

was  drunk  —  and  he 's  always  drunk."  Then  he 
laughed  again  still  more  shrilly.  "  He 's  a  gentle- 
man," he  said.  "  I  'm  a  gentleman's  son.  He  was  a 
Master  at  a  big  school  until  he  was  kicked  out  —  that 
was  when  I  was  four  and  my  mother  died.  I  'm 
thirteen  now.     How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  twelve,"  answered  Marco. 

The  Rat  twisted  his  face  enviously. 

"  I  wish  I  was  your  size !  Are  you  a  gentleman's 
son?    You  look  as  if  you  were." 

"  I  'm  a  very  poor  man's  son,"  was  Marco's  answer. 
"  My  father  is  a  writer." 

"  Then,  ten  to  one,  he  's  a  sort  of  gentleman,"  said 
The  Rat.  Then  quite  suddenly  he  threw  another 
question  at  him.  "  What 's  the  name  of  the  other 
Samavian  party?" 

"  The  Maranovitch.  The  Maranovitch  and  the 
Iarovitch  have  been  fighting  with  each  other  for  five 
hundred  years.  First  one  dynasty  rules,  and  then 
the  other  gets  in  when  it  has  killed  somebody  as  it 
killed  King  Maran,"  Marco  answered  without  hesita- 
tion. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  the  dynasty  that  ruled  be- 
fore they  began  fighting?  The  first  Maranovitch  as- 
sassinated the  last  of  them,"  The  Rat  asked  him. 

"  The  Fedorovitch,"  said  Marco.  "  The  last  one 
was  a  bad  king." 

"  His  son  was  the  one  they  never  found  again,"  said 
The  Rat.     "  The  one  they  call  the  Lost  Prince." 
40 


THE  RAT 

Marco  would  have  started  but  for  his  long  training 
in  exterior  self-control.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear  his 
dream-hero  spoken  of  in  this  back  alley  in  a  slum,  and 
just  after  he  had  been  thinking  of  him. 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?"  he  asked,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  he  saw  the  group  of  vagabond  lads  draw 
nearer. 

"  Not  much.  I  only  read  something  about  him  in  a 
torn  magazine  I  found  in  the  street,"  The  Rat  an- 
swered. "  The  man  that  wrote  about  him  said  he  was 
only  part  of  a  legend,  and  he  laughed  at  people  for  be- 
lieving in  him.  He  said  it  was  about  time  that  he 
should  turn  up  again  if  he  intended  to.  I  've  invented 
things  about  him  because  these  chaps  like  to  hear  me 
tell  them.     They're  only  stories." 

"  We  likes  'im,"  a  voice  called  out,  "  becos  'e  wos 
the  right  sort;  'e 'd  fight,  'e  would,  if  'e  was  in  Sa- 
mavia  now." 

Marco  rapidly  asked  himself  how  much  he  might 
say.     He  decided  and  spoke  to  them  all. 

"  He  is  not  part  of  a  legend.  He  's  part  of  Sa- 
mavian  history,"  he  said.  "  I  know  something  about 
him  too." 

"  How  did  you  find  it  out?  "  asked  The  Rat. 

"  Because  my  father 's  a  writer,  he 's  obliged  to 
have  books  and  papers,  and  he  knows  things.  I  like 
to  read,  and  I  go  into  the  free  libraries.  You  can  al- 
ways get  books  and  papers  there.  Then  I  ask  my 
father  questions.  All  the  newspapers  are  full  of  things 
4i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

about  Samavia  just  now."  Marco  felt  that  this  was 
an  explanation  which  betrayed  nothing.  It  was  true 
that  no  one  could  open  a  newspaper  at  this  period  with- 
out seeing  news  and  stories  of  Samavia. 

The  Rat  saw  possible  vistas  of  information  opening 
up  before  him. 

"  Sit  down  here,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  us  what  you 
know  about  him.     Sit  down,  you  fellows." 

There  was  nothing  to  sit  on  but  the  broken  flagged 
pavement,  but  that  was  a  small  matter.  Marco  him- 
self had  sat  on  flags  or  bare  ground  often  enough  be- 
fore, and  so  had  the  rest  of  the  lads.  He  took  his 
place  near  The  Rat,  and  the  others  made  a  semicircle 
in  front  of  them.  The  two  leaders  had  joined  forces, 
so  to  speak,  and  the  followers  fell  into  line  at  "  atten- 
tion." 

Then  the  new-comer  began  to  talk.  It  was  a  good 
story,  that  of  the  Lost  Prince,  and  Marco  told  it  in  a 
way  which  gave  it  reality.  How  could  he  help  it? 
He  knew,  as  they  could  not,  that  it  was  real.  He  who 
had  pored  over  maps  of  little  Samavia  since  his  seventh 
year,  who  had  studied  them  with  his  father,  knew  it 
as  a  country  he  could  have  found  his  way  to  any  part 
of  if  he  had  been  dropped  in  any  forest  or  any  moun- 
tain of  it.  He  knew  every  highway  and  byway,  and 
in  the  capital  city  of  Melzarr  could  almost  have  made 
his  way  blindfolded.  He  knew  the  palaces  and  the 
forts,  the  churches,  the  poor  streets  and  the  rich  ones. 
His  father  had  once  shown  him  a  plan  of  the  royal 
42 


THE  RAT 

palace  which  they  had  studied  together  until  the  boy 
knew  each  apartment  and  corridor  in  it  by  heart.  But 
this  he  did  not  speak  of.  He  knew  it  was  one  of  the 
things  to  be  silent  about.  But  of  the  mountains  and 
the  emerald  velvet  meadows  climbing  their  sides  and 
only  ending  where  huge  bare  crags  and  peaks  began, 
he  could  speak.  He  could  make  pictures  of  the  wide 
fertile  plains  where  herds  of  wild  horses  fed,  or  raced 
and  sniffed  the  air;  he  could  describe  the  fertile  val- 
leys where  clear  rivers  ran  and  flocks  of  sheep  pas- 
tured on  deep  sweet  grass.  He  could  speak  of  them 
because  he  could  offer  a  good  enough  reason  for  his 
knowledge  of  them.  It  was  not  the  only  reason  he 
had  for  his  knowledge,  but  it  was  one  which  would 
serve  well  enough. 

"  That  torn  magazine  you  found  had  more  than 
one  article  about  Samavia  in  it,"  he  said  to  The 
Rat.  "  The  same  man  wrote  four.  I  read  them  all 
in  a  free  library.  He  had  been  to  Samavia,  and  knew 
a  great  deal  about  it.  He  said  it  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  countries  he  had  ever  traveled  in  —  and  the 
most  fertile.     That 's  what  they  all  say  of  it." 

The  group  before  him  knew  nothing  of  fertility  or 
open  country.  They  only  knew  London  back  streets 
and  courts.  Most  of  them  had  never  traveled  as  far 
as  the  public  parks,  and  in  fact  scarcely  believed  in 
their  existence.  They  were  a  rough  lot,  and  as  they 
had  stared  at  Marco  at  first  sight  of  him,  so  they  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  him  as  he  talked.  When  he  told 
43 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

of  the  tall  Samavians  who  had  been  like  giants  cen- 
turies ago,  and  who  had  hunted  the  wild  horses  and 
captured  and  trained  them  to  obedience  by  a  sort  of 
strong  and  gentle  magic,  their  mouths  fell  open.  This 
was  the  sort  of  thing  to  allure  any  boy's  imagination. 

"  Blimme,  if  I  wouldn't  'ave  liked  ketchin'  one  o' 
them  'orses,"  broke  in  one  of  the  audience,  and  his 
exclamation  was  followed  by  a  dozen  of  like  nature 
from  the  others.  Who  would  n't  have  liked  "  ketchin' 
one  "  ? 

When  he  told  of  the  deep  endless-seeming  forests, 
and  of  the  herdsmen  and  shepherds  who  played  on 
their  pipes  and  made  songs  about  high  deeds  and 
bravery,  they  grinned  with  pleasure  without  knowing 
they  were  grinning.  They  did  not  really  know  that 
in  this  neglected,  broken-flagged  inclosure,  shut  in  on 
one  side  by  smoke-blackened,  poverty-stricken  houses, 
and  on  the  other  by  a  deserted  and  forgotten  sunken 
graveyard,  they  heard  the  rustle  of  green  forest  boughs 
where  birds  nested  close,  the  swish  of  the  summer 
wind  in  the  river  reeds,  and  the  tinkle  and  laughter  and 
rush  of  brooks  running. 

They  heard  more  or  less  of  it  all  through  the  Lost 
Prince  story,  because  Prince  Ivor  had  loved  lowland 
woods  and  mountain  forests  and  all  out-of-door  life. 
When  Marco  pictured  him  tall  and  strong-limbed  and 
young,  winning  all  the  people  when  he  rode  smiling 
among  them,  the  boys  grinned  again  with  unconscious 
pleasure. 

44 


They  were  suddenly  dragged  into  the  world  of  romance 


THE  RAT 

"  Wisht  'e  'ad n't  got  lost!  "  some  one  cried  out. 

When  they  heard  of  the  unrest  and  dissatisfaction 
of  the  Samavians,  they  began  to  get  restless  themselves. 
When  Marco  reached  the  part  of  the  story  in  which 
the  mob  rushed  into  the  palace  and  demanded  their 
prince  from  the  king,  they  ejaculated  scraps  of  bad 
language.  "  The  old  geezer  had  got  him  hidden  some- 
where in  some  dungeon,  or  he  'd  killed  him  out  an' 
out  —  that 's  what  he  'd  been  up  to !  "  they  clamored. 
"Wisht  the  lot  of  us  had  been  there  then  —  wisht 
we  'ad.     We  'd  'ave  give'  'im  wot  for,  anyway !  " 

"  An'  'im  walkin'  out  o'  the  place  so  early  in  the 
mornin'  just  singin'  like  that!  'E  'ad  'im  follered 
an'  done  for!  "  they  decided  with  various  exclamations 
of  boyish  wrath.  Somehow,  the  fact  that  the  hand- 
some royal  lad  had  strolled  into  the  morning  sunshine 
singing  made  them  more  savage.  Their  language  was 
extremely  bad  at  this  point. 

But  if  it  was  bad  here,  it  became  worse  when  the 
old  shepherd  found  the  young  huntsman's  half-dead 
body  in  the  forest.  He  had  "  bin  '  done  for '  in  the 
back!  'E'd  bin  give'  no  charnst.  G-r-r-r!"  they 
groaned  in  chorus.  "  Wisht  "  they  'd  "  bin  there  when 
'e'd  bin  'it!"  They'd  "'ave  done  fur  somebody" 
themselves.  It  was  a  story  which  had  a  queer  effect 
on  them.  It  made  them  think  they  saw  things ;  it  fired 
their  blood ;  it  set  them  wanting  to  fight  for  ideals  they 
knew  nothing  about  —  adventurous  things,  for  in- 
stance, and  high  and  noble  young  princes  who  were 
45 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

full  of  the  possibility  of  great  and  good  deeds.  Sitting 
upon  the  broken  flagstones  of  the  bit  of  ground  behind 
the  deserted  graveyard,  they  were  suddenly  dragged 
into  the  world  of  romance,  and  noble  young  princes 
and  great  and  good  deeds  became  as  real  as  the  sunken 
gravestones,  and  far  more  interesting. 

And  then  the  smuggling  across  the  frontier  of  the 
unconscious  prince  in  the  bullock  cart  loaded  with 
sheepskins !  They  held  their  breaths.  Would  the  old 
shepherd  get  him  past  the  line !  Marco,  who  was  lost 
in  the  recital  himself,  told  it  as  if  he  had  been  present. 
He  felt  as  if  he  had,  and  as  this  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  told  it  to  thrilled  listeners,  his  imagination 
got  him  in  its  grip,  and  his  heart  jumped  in  his  breast 
as  he  was  sure  the  old  man's  must  have  done  when  the 
guard  stopped  his  cart  and  asked  him  what  he  was 
carrying  out  of  the  country.  He  knew  he  must  have 
had  to  call  up  all  his  strength  to  force  his  voice  into 
steadiness. 

And  then  the  good  monks!  He  had  to  stop  to  ex- 
plain what  a  monk  was,  and  when  he  described  the 
solitude  of  the  ancient  monastery,  and  its  walled  gar- 
dens full  of  flowers  and  old  simples  to  be  used  for 
healing,  and  the  wise  monks  walking  in  the  silence  and 
the  sun,  the  boys  stared  a  little  helplessly,  but  still  as 
if  they  were  vaguely  pleased  by  the  picture. 

And  then  there  was  no  more  to  tell  —  no  more. 
There  it  broke  off,  and  something  like  a  low  howl  of 
dismay  broke  from  the  semicircle. 
46 


THE  RAT 

"  Aw !  "  they  protested,  "  it  'ad  n't  ought  to  stop 
there!  Ain't  there  no  more?  Is  that  all  there 
is?" 

"  It 's  all  that  was  ever  known  really.  And  that 
last  part  might  only  be  a  sort  of  story  made  up  by 
somebody.     But  I  believe  it  myself." 

The  Rat  had  listened  with  burning  eyes.  He  had 
sat  biting  his  finger-nails,  as  was  a  trick  of  his  when 
he  was  excited  or  angry. 

"  Tell  you  what !  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "  This 
was  what  happened.  It  was  some  of  the  Maranovitch 
fellows  that  tried  to  kill  him.  They  meant  to  kill  his 
father  and  make  their  own  man  king,  and  they  knew 
the  people  would  n't  stand  it  if  young  Ivor  was  alive. 
They  just  stabbed  him  in  the  back,  the  fiends!  I  dare 
say  they  heard  the  old  shepherd  coming,  and  left  him 
for  dead  and  ran." 

"  Right,  oh !  That  was  it ! "  the  lads  agreed. 
"  Yer  right  there,  Rat !  " 

"  When  he  got  well,"  The  Rat  went  on  feverishly, 
still  biting  his  nails,  "  he  could  n't  go  back.  He  was 
only  a  boy.  The  other  fellow  had  been  crowned,  and 
his  followers  felt  strong  because  they  'd  just  conquered 
the  country.  He  could  have  done  nothing  without  an 
army,  and  he  was  too  young  to  raise  one.  Perhaps  he 
thought  he  'd  wait  till  he  was  old  enough  to  know  what 
to  do.  I  dare  say  he  went  away  and  had  to  work  for 
his  living  as  if  he  'd  never  been  a  prince  at  all.  Then 
perhaps  sometime  he  married  somebody  and  had  a 
47 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

son,  and  told  him  as  a  secret  who  he  was  and  all  about 
Samavia."  The  Rat  began  to  look  vengeful.  "  If 
I  'd  bin  him,  I  'd  have  told  him  not  to  forget  what  the 
Maranovitch  had  done  to  me.  I  'd  have  told  him  that 
if  I  could  n't  get  back  the  throne,  he  must  see  what  he 
could  do  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man.  And  I  'd  have 
made  him  swear,  if  he  got  it  back,  to  take  it  out  of 
them  or  their  children  or  their  children's  children  in 
torture  and  killing.  I  'd  have  made  him  swear  not  to 
leave  a  Maranovitch  alive.  And  I  'd  have  told  him 
that,  if  he  could  n't  do  it  in  his  life,  he  must  pass  the 
oath  on  to  his  son  and  his  son's  son,  as  long  as  there 
was  a  Fedorovitch  on  earth.  Wouldn't  you?"  he 
demanded  hotly  of  Marco. 

Marco's  blood  was  also  hot,  but  it  was  a  different 
kind  of  blood,  and  he  had  talked  too  much  to  a  very 
sane  man. 

"  No,"  he  said  slowly.  "  What  would  have  been 
the  use?  It  wouldn't  have  done  Samavia  any  good, 
and  it  wouldn't  have  done  him  any  good  to  torture 
and  kill  people.  Better  keep  them  alive  and  make  them 
do  things  for  the  country.  If  you  're  a  patriot,  you 
think  of  the  country."  He  wanted  to  add  "  That 's 
what  my  father  says,"  but  he  did  not. 

"  Torture  'em  first  and  then  attend  to  the  country," 
snapped  The  Rat.  "  What  would  you  have  told  your 
son  if  you'd  been  Ivor?" 

"  I  'd  have  told  him  to  learn  everything  about  Sa- 
mavia —  and  all  the  things  kings  have  to  know  —  and 
48 


THE  RAT 

study  things  about  laws  and  other  countries  —  and 
about  keeping  silent  —  and  about  governing  himself 
as  if  he  were  a  general  commanding  soldiers  in  battle 
—  so  that  he  would  never  do  anything  he  did  not  mean 
to  do  or  could  be  ashamed  of  doing  after  it  was  over. 
And  I  'd  have  asked  him  to  tell  his  son's  sons  to  tell 
their  sons  to  learn  the  same  things.  So,  you  see,  how- 
ever long  the  time  was,  there  would  always  be  a  king 
getting  ready  for  Samavia  —  when  Samavia  really 
wanted  him.     And  he  would  be  a  real  king." 

He  stopped  himself  suddenly  and  looked  at  the  star- 
ing semicircle. 

"  I  did  n't  make  that  up  myself,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
heard  a  man  who  reads  and  knows  things  say  it.  I 
believe  the  Lost  Prince  would  have  had  the  same 
thoughts.  If  he  had,  and  told  them  to  his  son,  there 
has  been  a  line  of  kings  in  training  for  Samavia  for 
five  hundred  years,  and  perhaps  one  is  walking  about 
the  streets  of  Vienna,  or  Budapest,  or  Paris,  or  Lon- 
don now,  and  he  'd  be  ready  if  the  people  found  out 
about  him  and  called  him." 

"  Wisht  they  would !  "  some  one  yelled. 

"  It  would  be  a  queer  secret  to  know  all  the  time 
when  no  one  else  knew  it,"  The  Rat  communed  with 
himself  as  it  were,  "  that  you  were  a  king  and  you 
ought  to  be  on  a  throne  wearing  a  crown.  I  wonder  if 
it  would  make  a  chap  look  different?  " 

He  laughed  his  squeaky  laugh,  and  then  turned  in 
his  sudden  way  to  Marco : 
49 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  But  he  'd  be  a  fool  to  give  up  the  vengeance. 
What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Marco  Loristan.  What 's  yours  ?  It  is  n't  The 
Rat  really." 

"  It 's  Jem  Ratcli&e.  That 's  pretty  near.  Where 
do  you  live  ?  " 

"  No.  7  Philibert  Place." 

"  This  club  is  a  soldiers'  club,"  said  The  Rat.  "  It 's 
called  the  Squad.  I  'm  the  captain.  'Tention,  you 
fellows !     Let 's  show  him." 

The  semicircle  sprang  to  its  feet.  There  were  about 
twelve  lads  altogether,  and,  when  they  stood  upright, 
Marco  saw  at  once  that  for  some  reason  they  were 
accustomed  to  obeying  the  word  of  command  with 
military  precision. 

"  Form  in  line !  "  ordered  The  Rat. 

They  did  it  at  once,  and  held  their  backs  and  legs 
straight  and  their  heads  up  amazingly  well.  Each  had 
seized  one  of  the  sticks  which  had  been  stacked  to- 
gether like  guns. 

The  Rat  himself  sat  up  straight  on  his  platform. 
There  was  actually  something  military  in  the  bearing 
of  his  lean  body.  His  voice  lost  its  squeak  and  its 
sharpness  became  commanding. 

He  put  the  dozen  lads  through  the  drill  as  if  he  had 
been  a  smart  young  officer.  And  the  drill  itself  was 
prompt  and  smart  enough  to  have  done  credit  to  prac- 
tised soldiers  in  barracks.  It  made  Marco  involun- 
5o 


THE  RAT 

tarily  stand  very  straight  himself,  and  watch  with  sur- 
prised interest. 

"  That 's  good !  "  he  exclaimed  when  it  was  at  an 
end.     "  How  did  you  learn  that?  " 

The  Rat  made  a  savage  gesture. 

"  If  I  'd  had  legs  to  stand  on,  I  'd  have  been  a  sol- 
dier !  "  he  said.  "  I  'd  have  enlisted  in  any  regiment 
that  would  take  me.     I  don't  care  for  anything  else." 

Suddenly  his  face  changed,  and  he  shouted  a  com- 
mand to  his  followers. 

"  Turn  your  backs !  "  he  ordered. 

And  they  did  turn  their  backs  and  looked  through 
the  railings  of  the  old  churchyard.  Marco  saw  that 
they  were  obeying  an  order  which  was  not  new  to 
them.  The  Rat  had  thrown  his  arm  up  over  his  eyes 
and  covered  them.  He  held  it  there  for  several  mo- 
ments, as  if  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen.  Marco  turned 
his  back  as  the  rest  had  done.  All  at  once  he  under- 
stood that,  though  The  Rat  was  not  crying,  yet  he  was 
feeling  something  which  another  boy  would  possibly 
have  broken  down  under. 

"  All  right!  "  he  shouted  presently,  and  dropped  his 
ragged-sleeved  arm  and  sat  up  straight  again. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  war !  "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  want 
to  fight!  I  want  to  lead  a  lot  of  men  into  battle! 
And  I  haven't  got  any  legs.  Sometimes  it  takes  the 
pluck  out  of  me." 

"  You  've  not  grown  up  yet !  "  said  Marco.  "  You 
5i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

might  get  strong.     No  one  knows  what  is  going  to 
happen.     How  did  you  learn  to  drill  the  club?  " 

"  I  hang  about  barracks.  I  watch  and  listen.  I 
follow  soldiers.  If  I  could  get  books,  I  'd  read  about 
wars.  I  can't  go  to  libraries  as  you  can.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  scuffle  about  like  a  rat." 

"  I  can  take  you  to  some  libraries,"  said  Marco. 
"  There  are  places  where  boys  can  get  in.  And  I  can 
get  some  papers  from  my  father." 

"  Can  you?  "  said  The  Rat.  "  Do  you  want  to  join 
the  club? " 

"  Yes !  "  Marco  answered.  "  I  '11  speak  to  my  fa- 
ther about  it." 

He  said  it  because  the  hungry  longing  for  compan- 
ionship in  his  own  mind  had  found  a  sort  of  response 
in  the  queer  hungry  look  in  The  Rat's  eyes.  He 
wanted  to  see  him  again.  Strange  creature  as  he  was, 
there  was  attraction  in  him.  Scuffling  about  on  his 
low  wheeled  platform,  he  had  drawn  this  group  of 
rough  lads  to  him  and  made  himself  their  commander. 
They  obeyed  him;  they  listened  to  his  stories  and 
harangues  about  war  and  soldiering ;  they  let  him  drill 
them  and  give  them  orders.  Marco  knew  that,  when 
he  told  his  father  about  him,  he  would  be  interested. 
The  boy  wanted  to  hear  what  Loristan  would  say. 

"  I  'm  going  home  now,"  he  said.  "If  you  're  going 
to  be  here  to-morrow,  I  will  try  to  come." 

"  We  shall  be  here,"  The  Rat  answered.  "  It 's  our 
barracks." 

52 


THE  RAT 

Marco  drew  himself  up  smartly  and  made  his  salute 
as  if  to  a  superior  officer.  Then  he  wheeled  about  and 
marched  through  the  brick  archway,  and  the  sound  of 
his  boyish  tread  was  as  regular  and  decided  as  if  he 
had  been  a  man  keeping  time  with  his  regiment. 

"  He 's  been  drilled  himself,"  said  The  Rat.  "  He 
knows  as  much  as  I  do." 

And  he  sat  up  and  stared  down  the  passage  with 
new  interest. 


53 


CHAPTER  V 

"  SILENCE   IS    STILL   THE   ORDER  " 

THEY  were  even  poorer  than  usual  just  now,  and 
the  supper  Marco  and  his  father  sat  down  to 
was  scant  enough.  Lazarus  stood  upright  behind  his 
master's  chair  and  served  him  with  strictest  ceremony. 
Their  poor  lodgings  were  always  kept  with  a  soldierly 
cleanliness  and  order.  When  an  object  could  be  pol- 
ished it  was  forced  to  shine,  no  grain  of  dust  was  al- 
lowed to  lie  undisturbed,  and  this  perfection  was  not 
attained  through  the  ministrations  of  a  lodging-house 
slavey.  Lazarus  made  himself  extremely  popular  by 
taking  the  work  of  caring  for  his  master's  rooms  en- 
tirely out  of  the  hands  of  the  overburdened  maids  of 
all  work.  He  had  learned  to  do  many  things  in  his 
young  days  in  barracks.  He  carried  about  with  him 
coarse  bits  of  table-cloths  and  towels,  which  he  laun- 
dered as  if  they  had  been  the  finest  linen.  He  mended, 
he  patched,  he  darned,  and  in  the  hardest  fight  the  poor 
must  face  —  the  fight  with  dirt  and  dinginess  —  he 
always  held  his  own.  They  had  nothing  but  dry  bread 
and  coffee  this  evening,  but  Lazarus  had  made  the 
coffee  and  the  bread  was  good. 

As  Marco  ate,  he  told  his  father  the  story  of  The 
54 


"SILENCE  IS  STILL  THE  ORDER" 

Rat  and  his  followers.  Loristan  listened,  as  the  boy- 
had  known  he  would,  with  the  far-off,  intently-thinking 
smile  in  his  dark  eyes.  It  was  a  look  which  always 
fascinated  Marco  because  it  meant  that  he  was  think- 
ing so  many  things.  Perhaps  he  would  tell  some  of 
them  and  perhaps  he  would  not.  His  spell  over  the 
boy  lay  in  the  fact  that  to  him  he  seemed  like  a  won- 
derful book  of  which  one  had  only  glimpses.  It  was 
full  of  pictures  and  adventures  which  were  true,  and 
one  could  not  help  continually  making  guesses  about 
them.  Yes,  the  feeling  that  Marco  had  was  that  his 
father's  attraction  for  him  was  a  sort  of  spell,  and 
that  others  felt  the  same  thing.  When  he  stood  and 
talked  to  commoner  people,  he  held  his  tall  body  with 
singular  quiet  grace  which  was  like  power.  He  never 
stirred  or  moved  himself  as  if  he  were  nervous  or  un- 
certain. He  could  hold  his  hands  (he  had  beautiful 
slender  and  strong  hands)  quite  still;  he  could  stand 
on  his  fine  arched  feet  without  shuffling  them.  He 
could  sit  without  any  ungrace  or  restlessness.  His 
mind  knew  what  his  body  should  do,  and  gave  it  orders 
without  speaking,  and  his  fine  limbs  and  muscles  and 
nerves  obeyed.  So  he  could  stand  still  and  at  ease 
and  look  at  the  people  he  was  talking  to,  and  they  al- 
ways looked  at  him  and  listened  to  what  he  said,  and 
somehow,  courteous  and  uncondescending  as  his  man- 
ner unfailingly  was,  it  used  always  to  seem  to  Marco 
as  if  he  were  "  giving  an  audience  "  as  kings  give  them. 
He  had  often  seen  people  bow  very  low  when  they 
55 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

went  away  from  him,  and  more  than  once  it  had  hap- 
pened that  some  humble  person  had  stepped  out  of  his 
presence  backward,  as  people  do  when  retiring  before 
a  sovereign.  And  yet  his  bearing  was  the  quietest  and 
least  assuming  in  the  world. 

"  And  they  were  talking  about  Samavia  ?  And  he 
knew  the  story  of  the  Lost  Prince?"  he  said  ponder- 
ingly.     "  Even  in  that  place !  " 

"  He  wants  to  hear  about  wars  —  he  wants  to  talk 
about  them,"  Marco  answered.  "  If  he  could  stand 
and  were  old  enough,  he  would  go  and  fight  for 
Samavia  himself." 

"  It  is  a  blood-drenched  and  sad  place  now !  "  said 
Loristan.  "The  people  are  mad  when  they  are  not 
heartbroken  and  terrified." 

Suddenly  Marco  struck  the  table  with  a  sounding 
slap  of  his  boy's  hand.  He  did  it  before  he  realized 
any  intention  in  his  own  mind. 

"  Why  should  either  one  of  the  Iarovitch  or  one  of 
the  Maranovitch  be  king !  "  he  cried.  "  They  were 
only  savage  peasants  when  they  first  fought  for  the 
crown  hundreds  of  years  ago.  The  most  savage  one 
got  it,  and  they  have  been  fighting  ever  since.  Only 
the  Fedorovitch  were  born  kings.  There  is  only  one 
man  in  the  world  who  has  the  right  to  the  throne  — 
and  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  in  the  world  or  not. 
But  I  believe  he  is !     I  do !  " 

Loristan  looked  at  his  hot  twelve-year-old  face  with 
a  reflective  curiousness.  He  saw  that  the  flame  which 
56 


"SILENCE  IS  STILL  THE  ORDER" 

had  leaped  up  in  him  had  leaped  without  warning  — 
just  as  a  fierce  heart-beat  might  have  shaken  him. 

"You  mean  —  ?"  he  suggested  softly. 

"  Ivor  Fedorovitch.  King  Ivor  he  ought  to  be. 
And  the  people  would  obey  him,  and  the  good  days 
would  come  again." 

"  It  is  five  hundred  years  since  Ivor  Fedorovitch 
left  the  good  monks."     Loristan  still  spoke  softly. 

"  But,  Father,"  Marco  protested,  "  even  The  Rat 
said  what  you  said  —  that  he  was  too  young  to  be  able 
to  come  back  while  the  Maranovitch  were  in  power. 
And  he  would  have  to  work  and  have  a  home,  and 
perhaps  he  is  as  poor  as  we  are.  But  when  he  had  a 
son  he  would  call  him  Ivor  and  tell  him  —  and  his  son 
would  call  his  son  Ivor  and  tell  him  —  and  it  would 
go  on  and  on.  They  could  never  call  their  eldest  sons 
anything  but  Ivor.  And  what  you  said  about  the 
training  would  be  true.  There  would  always  be  a  king 
being  trained  for  Samavia,  and  ready  to  be  called." 
In  the  fire  of  his  feelings  he  sprang  from  his  chair  and 
stood  upright.  "  Why!  There  may  be  a  king  of  Sa- 
mavia in  some  city  now  who  knows  he  is  king,  and, 
when  he  reads  about  the  fighting  among  his  people,  his 
blood  gets  red-hot.  They  're  his  own  people  —  his 
very  own !  He  ought  to  go  to  them  —  he  ought  to  go 
and  tell  them  who  he  is!  Don't  you  think  he  ought, 
Father?" 

"  It  would  not  be  as  easy  as  it  seems  to  a  boy," 
Loristan  answered.  "  There  are  many  countries 
57 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

which  would  have  something  to  say  —  Russia  would 
have  her  word,  and  Austria,  and  Germany;  and  Eng- 
land never  is  silent.  But,  if  he  were  a  strong  man  and 
knew  how  to  make  strong  friends  in  silence,  he  might 
sometime  be  able  to  declare  himself  openly." 

"  But  if  he  is  anywhere,  some  one  —  some  Samavian 
—  ought  to  go  and  look  for  him.  It  ought  to  be  a 
Samavian  who  is  very  clever  and  a  patriot — "  He 
stopped  at  a  flash  of  recognition.  "  Father !  "  he  cried 
out.  "  Father !  You  —  you  are  the  one  who  could 
find  him  if  any  one  in  the  world  could.  But  per- 
haps — "  and  he  stopped  a  moment  again  because  new 
thoughts  rushed  through  his  mind.  "  Have  you  ever 
looked  for  him?  "  he  asked  hesitating. 

Perhaps  he  had  asked  a  stupid  question  —  perhaps 
his  father  had  always  been  looking  for  him,  perhaps 
that  was  his  secret  and  his  work. 

But  Loristan  did  not  look  as  if  he  thought  him 
stupid.  Quite  the  contrary.  He  kept  his  handsome 
eyes  fixed  on  him  still  in  that  curious  way,  as  if  he 
were  studying  him  —  as  if  he  were  much  more  than 
twelve  years  old,  and  he  were  deciding  to  tell  him 
something. 

"  Comrade  at  arms,"  he  said,  with  the  smile  which 
always  gladdened  Marco's  heart,  "  you  have  kept  your 
oath  of  allegiance  like  a  man.  You  were  not  seven 
years  old  when  you  took  it.  You  are  growing  older. 
Silence  is  still  the  order,  but  you  are  man  enough  to 
be  told  more."  He  paused  and  looked  down,  and  then 
58 


"  SILENCE  IS  STILL  THE  ORDER  " 

looked  up  again,  speaking  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  have  not 
looked  for  him,"  he  said,  "  because  —  I  believe  I  know 
where  he  is." 

Marco  caught  his  breath. 

"  Father !  "  He  said  only  that  word.  He  could 
say  no  more.  He  knew  he  must  not  ask  questions. 
"  Silence  is  still  the  order."  But  as  they  faced  each 
other  in  their  dingy  room  at  the  back  of  the  shabby 
house  on  the  side  of  the  roaring  common  road  —  as 
Lazarus  stood  stock-still  behind  his  father's  chair  and 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  coffee  cups  and  the 
dry  bread  plate,  and  everything  looked  as  poor  as 
things  always  did  —  there  was  a  king  of  Samavia  — 
an  Ivor  Fedorovitch  with  the  blood  of  the  Lost  Prince 
in  his  veins  —  alive  in  some  town  or  city  this  moment ! 
And  Marco's  own  father  knew  where  he  was ! 

He  glanced  at  Lazarus,  but,  though  the  old  soldier's 
face  looked  as  expressionless  as  if  it  were  cut  out  of 
wood,  Marco  realized  that  he  knew  this  thing  and  had 
always  known  it.  He  had  been  a  comrade  at  arms  all 
his  life.     He  continued  to  stare  at  the  bread  plate. 

Loristan  spoke  again  and  in  an  even  lower  voice. 
"  The  Samavians  who  are  patriots  and  thinkers,"  he 
said,  "  formed  themselves  into  a  secret  party  about 
eighty  years  ago.  They  formed  it  when  they  had  no 
reason  for  hope,  but  they  formed  it  because  one  of 
them  discovered  that  an  Ivor  Fedorovitch  was  living. 
He  was  head  forester  on  a  great  estate  in  the  Austrian 
Alps.  The  nobleman  he  served  had  always  thought 
59 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

him  a  mystery  because  he  had  the  bearing  and  speech 
of  a  man  who  had  not  been  born  a  servant,  and  his 
methods  in  caring  for  the  forests  and  game  were  those 
of  a  man  who  was  educated  and  had  studied  his  sub- 
ject. But  he  never  was  familiar  or  assuming,  and 
never  professed  superiority  over  any  of  his  fellows. 
He  was  a  man  of  great  stature,  and  was  extraordinarily 
brave  and  silent.  The  nobleman  who  was  his  master 
made  a  sort  of  companion  of  him  when  they  hunted 
together.  Once  he  took  him  with  him  when  he 
traveled  to  Samavia  to  hunt  wild  horses.  He  found 
that  he  knew  the  country  strangely  well,  and  that  he 
was  familiar  with  Samavian  hunting  and  customs. 
Before  he  returned  to  Austria,  the  man  obtained  per- 
mission to  go  to  the  mountains  alone.  He  went  among 
the  shepherds  and  made  friends  among  them,  asking 
many  questions.  One  night  around  a  forest  fire  he 
heard  the  songs  about  the  Lost  Prince  which  had  not 
been  forgotten  even  after  nearly  five  hundred  years 
had  passed.  The  shepherds  and  herdsmen  talked 
about  Prince  Ivor,  and  told  old  stories  about  him,  and 
related  the  prophecy  that  he  would  come  back  and 
bring  again  Samavia's  good  days.  He  might  come 
only  in  the  body  of  one  of  his  descendants,  but  it 
would  be  his  spirit  which  came,  because  his  spirit 
would  never  cease  to  love  Samavia.  One  very  old 
shepherd  tottered  to  his  feet  and  lifted  his  face  to  the 
myriad  stars  bestrewn  like  jewels  in  the  blue  sky 
above  the  forest  trees,  and  he  wept  and  prayed  aloud 
60 


"SILENCE  IS  STILL  THE  ORDER" 

that  the  great  God  would  send  their  king  to  them. 
And  the  stranger  huntsman  stood  upright  also  and 
lifted  his  face  to  the  stars.  And,  though  he  said  no 
word,  the  herdsman  nearest  to  him  saw  tears  on  his 
cheeks  —  great,  heavy  tears.  The  next  day,  the 
stranger  went  to  the  monastery  where  the  order  of 
good  monks  lived  who  had  taken  care  of  the  Lost 
Prince.  When  he  had  left  Samavia,  the  secret  society 
was  formed,  and  the  members  of  it  knew  that  an  Ivor 
Fedorovitch  had  passed  through  his  ancestors'  country 
as  the  servant  of  another  man.  But  the  secret  society 
was  only  a  small  one,  and,  though  it  has  been  grow- 
ing ever  since  and  it  has  done  good  deeds  and  good 
work  in  secret,  the  huntsman  died  an  old  man  before 
it  was  strong  enough  even  to  dare  to  tell  Samavia 
what  it  knew." 

"  Had  he  a  son?  "  cried  Marco.     "  Had  he  a  son?  " 

"  Yes.  He  had  a  son.  His  name  was  Ivor.  And 
he  was  trained  as  I  told  you.  That  part  I  knew  to  be 
true,  though  I  should  have  believed  it  was  true  even  if 
I  had  not  known.  There  has  always  been  a  king  ready 
for  Samavia  —  even  when  he  has  labored  with  his 
hands  and  served  others.  Each  one  took  the  oath  of 
allegiance." 

"  As  I  did  ?  "  said  Marco,  breathless  with  excite- 
ment. When  one  is  twelve  years  old,  to  be  so  near  a 
Lost  Prince  who  might  end  wars  is  a  thrilling  thing. 

"  The  same,"  answered  Loristan. 

Marco  threw  up  his  hand  in  salute. 

01 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Here  grows  a  man  for  Samavia !  God  be 
thanked !  "  he  quoted.  "  And  he  is  somewhere  ?  And 
you  know?  " 

Loristan  bent  his  head  in  acquiescence. 

"  For  years  much  secret  work  has  been  done,  and 
the  Fedorovitch  party  has  grown  until  it  is  much 
greater  and  more  powerful  than  the  other  parties 
dream.  The  larger  countries  are  tired  of  the  constant 
war  and  disorder  in  Samavia.  Their  interests  are  dis- 
turbed by  them,  and  they  are  deciding  that  they  must 
have  peace  and  laws  which  can  be  counted  on.  There 
have  been  Samavian  patriots  who  have  spent  their 
lives  in  trying  to  bring  this  about  by  making  friends 
in  the  most  powerful  capitals,  and  working  secretly 
for  the  future  good  of  their  own  land.  Because 
Samavia  is  so  small  and  uninfluential,  it  has  taken  a 
long  time ;  but  when  King  Maran  and  his  family  were 
assassinated  and  the  war  broke  out,  there  were  great 
powers  which  began  to  say  that  if  some  king  of  good 
blood  and  reliable  characteristics  were  given  the  crown, 
he  should  be  upheld." 

"  His  blood," —  Marco's  intensity  made  his  voice 
drop  almost  to  a  whisper, — "  his  blood  has  been  trained 
for  five  hundred  years,  Father!  If  it  comes  true — " 
though  he  laughed  a  little,  he  was  obliged  to  wink  his 
eyes  hard  because  suddenly  he  felt  tears  rush  into 
them,  which  no  boy  likes  — "  the  shepherds  will  have  to 
make  a  new  song  —  it  will  have  to  be  a  shouting  one 
about  a  prince  going  away  and  a  king  coming  back !  " 
62 


"  SILENCE  IS  STILL  THE  ORDER  " 

"  They  are  a  devout  people  and  observe  many  an 
ancient  rite  and  ceremony.  They  will  chant  prayers 
and  burn  altar-fires  on  their  mountain  sides,"  Loristan 
said.  "  But  the  end  is  not  yet  —  the  end  is  not  yet. 
Sometimes  it  seems  that  perhaps  it  is  near  —  but  God 
knows ! " 

Then  there  leaped  back  upon  Marco  the  story  he  had 
to  tell,  but  which  he  had  held  back  for  the  last  —  the 
story  of  the  man  who  spoke  Samavian  and  drove  in  the 
carriage  with  the  King.  He  knew  now  that  it  might 
mean  some  important  thing  which  he  could  not  have 
before  suspected. 

"  There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said. 

He  had  learned  to  relate  incidents  in  few  but  clear 
words  when  he  related  them  to  his  father.  It  had  been 
part  of  his  training.  Loristan  had  said  that  he  might 
sometime  have  a  story  to  tell  when  he  had  but 
few  moments  to  tell  it  in  —  some  story  which  meant 
life  or  death  to  some  one.  He  told  this  one  quickly 
and  well.  He  made  Loristan  see  the  well-dressed 
man  with  the  deliberate  manner  and  the  keen  eyes, 
and  he  made  him  hear  his  voice  when  he  said, 
"  Tell  your  father  that  you  are  a  very  well-trained 
lad." 

"  I  am  glad  he  said  that.  He  is  a  man  who  knows 
what  training  is,"  said  Loristan.  "  He  is  a  person  who 
knows  what  all  Europe  is  doing,  and  almost  all  that 
it  will  do.  He  is  an  ambassador  from  a  powerful  and 
great  country.  If  he  saw  that  you  are  a  well-trained 
63 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

and  fine  lad,  it  might  —  it  might  even  be  good  for 
Samavia." 

"  Would  it  matter  that  /  was  well-trained  ?  Could 
it  matter  to  Samavia?  "  Marco  cried  out. 

Loristan  paused  for  a  moment  —  watching  him 
gravely  —  looking  him  over  —  his  big,  well-built  boy's 
frame,  his  shabby  clothes,  and  his  eagerly  burning 
eyes. 

He  smiled  one  of  his  slow  wonderful  smiles. 

"  Yes.  It  might  even  matter  to  Samavia !  "  he  an- 
swered. 


64 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   DRILL   AND   THE   SECRET    PARTY 

LORISTAN  did  not  forbid  Marco  to  pursue  his 
acquaintance  with  The  Rat  and  his  followers. 

"  You  will  find  out  for  yourself  whether  they  are 
friends  for  you  or  not,"  he  said.  "  You  will  know 
in  a  few  days,  and  then  you  can  make  your  own  de- 
cision. You  have  known  lads  in  various  countries, 
and  you  are  a  good  judge  of  them,  I  think.  You  will 
soon  see  whether  they  are  going  to  be  men  or  mere 
rabble.  The  Rat  now  —  how  does  he  strike  you?" 
And  the  handsome  eyes  held  their  keen  look  of  ques- 
tioning. 

"  He  'd  be  a  brave  soldier  if  he  could  stand,"  said 
Marco,  thinking  him  over.     "  But  he  might  be  cruel." 

"  A  lad  who  might  make  a  brave  soldier  cannot  be 
disdained,  but  a  man  who  is  cruel  is  a  fool.  Tell  him 
that  from  me,"  Loristan  answered.  "  He  wastes  force 
— his  own  and  the  force  of  the  one  he  treats  cruelly. 
Only  a  fool  wastes  force." 

"May  I  speak  of  you  sometimes?"  asked  Marco. 

"  Yes.     You  will  know  how.     You  will  remember 
the  things  about  which  silence  is  the  order." 
65 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  I  never  forget  them,"  said  Marco.  "  I  have  been 
trying  not  to,  for  such  a  long  time." 

"  You  have  succeeded  well,  Comrade !  "  returned 
Loristan,  from  his  writing-table,  to  which  he  had  gone 
and  where  he  was  turning  over  papers. 

A  strong  impulse  overpowered  the  boy.  He 
marched  over  to  the  table  and  stood  very  straight,  mak- 
ing his  soldierly  young  salute,  his  whole  body  glow- 
ing. 

"  Fa  her !  "  he  said,  "  you  don't  know  how  I  love 
you!  I  wish  you  were  a  general  and  I  might  die  in 
battle  for  you.  When  I  look  at  you,  I  long  and  long 
to  do  something  for  you  a  boy  could  not  do.  I  would 
die  of  a  thousand  wounds  rather  than  disobey  you  — 
or  Samavia !  " 

He  seized  Loristan's  hand,  and  knelt  on  one  knee 
and  kissed  it.  An  English  or  American  boy  could 
not  have  done  such  a  thing  from  unaffected  natural 
impulse.     But  he  was  of  warm  Southern  blood. 

"  I  took  my  oath  of  allegiance  to  you,  Father,  when 
I  took  it  to  Samavia.  It  seems  as  if  you  were  Sa- 
mavia, too,"  he  said,  and  kissed  his  hand  again. 

Loristan  had  turned  toward  him  with  one  of  the 
movements  which  were  full  of  dignity  and  grace. 
Marco,  looking  up  at  him,  felt  that  there  was  always 
a  certain  remote  stateliness  in  him  which  made  it  seem 
quite  natural  that  any  one  should  bend  the  knee  and 
kiss  his  hand. 

A  sudden  great  tenderness  glowed  in  his  father's 
66 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

face  as  he  raised  the  boy  and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"  Comrade,"  he  said,  '*  you  don't  know  how  much 
I  love  you  —  and  what  reason  there  is  that  we  should 
love  each  other!  You  don't  know  how  I  have  been 
watching  you,  and  thanking  God  each  year  that  here 
grew  a  man  for  Samavia.  That  I  know  you  are  —  a 
man,  though  you  have  lived  but  twelve  years.  Twelve 
years  may  grow  a  man  —  or  prove  that  a  man  will 
never  grow,  though  a  human  thing  he  may  remain  for 
ninety  years.  This  year  may  be  full  of  strange  things 
for  both  of  us.  We  cannot  know  what  I  may  have  to 
ask  you  to  do  for  me  —  and  for  Samavia.  Perhaps 
such  a  thing  as  no  twelve-year-old  boy  has  ever  done 
before." 

"  Every  night  and  every  morning,"  said  Marco,  "  I 
shall  pray  that  I  may  be  called  to  do  it,  and  that  I  may 
do  it  well." 

"  You  will  do  it  well,  Comrade,  if  you  are  called. 
That  I  could  make  oath,"  Loristan  answered  him. 

The  Squad  had  collected  in  the  inclosure  behind  the 
church  when  Marco  appeared  at  the  arched  end  of  the 
passage.  The  boys  were  drawn  up  with  their  rifles, 
but  they  all  wore  a  rather  dogged  and  sullen  look. 
The  explanation  which  darted  into  Marco's  mind  was 
that  this  was  because  The  Rat  was  in  a  bad  humor. 
He  sat  crouched  together  on  his  platform  biting  his 
nails  fiercely,  his  elbows  on  his  updrawn  knees,  his 
67 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

face  twisted  into  a  hideous  scowl.  He  did  not  look 
around,  or  even  look  up  from  the  cracked  flagstone  of 
the  pavement  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed. 

Marco  went  forward  with  military  step  and  stopped 
opposite  to  him  with  prompt  salute. 

"  Sorry  to  be  late,  sir,"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
private  speaking  to  his  colonel. 

"It's  'im,  Rat!  'E's  come,  Rat!"  the  Squad 
shouted.     "  Look  at  'im !  " 

But  The  Rat  would  not  look,  and  did  not  even  move. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Marco,  with  less  cere- 
mony than  a  private  would  have  shown.  "  There  's 
no  use  in  my  coming  here  if  you  don't  want  me." 

"  'E  's  got  a  grouch  on  'cos  you  're  late !  "  called 
out  the  head  of  the  line.  "  No  doin'  nothin'  when  'e  's 
got  a  grouch  on." 

"  I  sha'n't  try  to  do  anything,"  said  Marco,  his  boy- 
face  setting  itself  into  good  stubborn  lines.  "  That 's 
not  what  I  came  here  for.  I  came  to  drill.  I  've  been 
with  my  father.  He  comes  first.  I  can't  join  the 
Squad  if  he  does  n't  come  first.  We  're  not  on  active 
service,  and  we  're  not  in  barracks." 

Then  The  Rat  moved  sharply  and  turned  to  look 
at  him. 

"  I  thought  you  were  n't  coming  at  all !  "  he  snapped 
and  growled  at  once.  "  My  father  said  you  would  n't. 
He  said  you  were  a  young  swell  for  all  your  patched 
clothes.  He  said  your  father  would  think  he  was  a 
swell,  even  if  he  was  only  a  penny-a-liner  on  news- 
68 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

papers,  and  he  would  n't  let  you  have  anything  to  do 
with  a  vagabond  and  a  nuisance.  Nobody  begged  you 
to  join.     Your  father  can  go  to  blazes !  " 

"  Don't  you  speak  in  that  way  about  my  father,"  said 
Marco,  quite  quietly,  "  because  I  can't  knock  you 
down." 

"  I  '11  get  up  and  let  you !  "  began  The  Rat,  imme- 
diately white  and  raging.  "  I  can  stand  up  with  two 
sticks.     I  '11  get  up  and  let  you !  " 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Marco.  "If  you  want  to 
know  what  my  father  said,  I  can  tell  you.  He  said 
I  could  come  as  often  as  I  liked  —  till  I  found  out 
whether  we  should  be  friends  or  not.  He  says  I  shall 
find  that  out  for  myself." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  The  Rat  did.  It  must  always 
be  remembered  of  him  that  his  wretched  father,  who 
had  each  year  sunk  lower  and  lower  in  the  under- world, 
had  been  a  gentleman  once,  a  man  who  had  been 
familiar  with  good  manners  and  had  been  educated  in 
the  customs  of  good  breeding.  Sometimes  when  he 
was  drunk,  and  sometimes  when  he  was  partly  sober, 
he  talked  to  The  Rat  of  many  things  the  boy  would 
otherwise  never  have  heard  of.  That  was  why  the  lad 
was  different  from  the  other  vagabonds.  This,  also, 
was  why  he  suddenly  altered  the  whole  situation  by 
doing  this  strange  and  unexpected  thing.  He  utterly 
changed  his  expression  and  voice,  fixing  his  sharp  eyes 
shrewdly  on  Marco's.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  were 
asking  him  a  conundrum.  He  knew  it  would  have 
69 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

been  one  to  most  boys  of  the  class  he  appeared  out- 
wardly to  belong  to.  He  would  either  know  the  an- 
swer or  he  would  n't. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  The  Rat  said. 

That  was  the  ccrmndrum.  It  was  what  a  gentle- 
man and  an  officer  would  have  said,  if  he  felt  he  had 
been  mistaken  or  rude.  He  had  heard  that  from  his 
drunken  father. 

"  I  beg  yours  —  for  being  late,"  said  Marco. 

That  was  the  right  answer.  It  was  the  one  an- 
other officer  and  gentleman  would  have  made.  It 
settled  the  matter  at  once,  and  it  settled  more  than  was 
apparent  at  the  moment.  It  decided  that  Marco  was 
one  of  those  who  knew  the  things  The  Rat's  father 
had  once  known  —  the  things  gentlemen  do  and  say 
and  think.  Not  another  word  was  said.  It  was  all 
right.  Marco  slipped  into  line  with  the  Squad,  and 
The  Rat  sat  erect  with  his  military  bearing  and  began 
his  drill : 

"Squad! 

"  'Tention ! 

"  Number ! 

"  Slope  arms ! 

"  Form  fours ! 

"Right! 

"  Quick  march ! 

"Halt! 

"  Left  turn ! 

"  Order  arms ! 

70 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

"  Stand  at  ease ! 

"  Stand  easy !  " 

They  did  it  so  well  that  it  was  quite  wonderful 
when  one  considered  the  limited  space  at  their  disposal. 
They  had  evidently  done  it  often,  and  The  Rat  had 
been  not  only  a  smart,  but  a  severe,  officer.  This 
morning  they  repeated  the  exercise  a  number  of  times, 
and  even  varied  it  with  Review  Drill,  with  which  they 
seemed  just  as  familiar. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  it  ?  "  The  Rat  asked,  when 
the  arms  were  stacked  again  and  Marco  was  sitting 
by  him  as  he  had  sat  the  previous  day. 

"  From  an  old  soldier.  And  I  like  to  watch  it,  as 
you  do." 

"If  you  were  a  young  swell  in  the  Guards,  you 
could  n't  be  smarter  at  it,"  The  Rat  said.  "  The  way 
you  hold  yourself !  The  way  you  stand !  You  've  got 
it !     Wish  I  was  you !     It  comes  natural  to  you." 

"  I  've  always  liked  to  watch  it  and  try  to  do  it  my- 
self. I  did  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,"  answered 
Marco. 

"  I  've  been  trying  to  kick  it  into  these  chaps  for 
more  than  a  year,"  said  The  Rat.  "  A  nice  job  I  had 
of  it!     It  nearly  made  me  sick  at  first." 

The  semicircle  in  front  of  him  only  giggled  or 
laughed  outright.  The  members  of  it  seemed  to  take 
very  little  offense  at  his  cavalier  treatment  of  them. 
He  had  evidently  something  to  give  them  which  was 
entertaining  enough  to  make  up  for  his  tyranny  and 

n 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

indifference.  He  thrust  his  hand  into  one  of  the 
pockets  of  his  ragged  coat,  and  drew  out  a  piece  of 
newspaper. 

"  My  father  brought  home  this,  wrapped  round  a 
loaf  of  bread,"  he  said.     "  See  what  it  says  there!  " 

He  handed  it  to  Marco,  pointing  to  some  words 
printed  in  large  letters  at  the  head  of  a  column. 
Marco  looked  at  it  and  sat  very  still. 

The  words  he  read  were :  "  The  Lost  Prince." 

"  Silence  is  still  the  order,"  was  the  first  thought 
which  flashed  through  his  mind.  "  Silence  is  still  the 
order." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  he  said  aloud. 

"  There  is  n't  much  of  it.  I  wish  there  was  more," 
The  Rat  said  fretfully.  "  Read  and  see.  Of  course 
they  say  it  may  n't  be  true  —  but  I  believe  it  is.  They 
say  that  people  think  some  one  knows  where  he  is  — 
at  least  where  one  of  his  descendants  is.  It  'd  be  the 
same  thing.  He  'd  be  the  real  king.  If  he  'd  just 
show  himself,  it  might  stop  all  the  fighting.  Just 
read." 

Marco  read,  and  his  skin  prickled  as  the  blood  went 
racing  through  his  body.  But  his  face  did  not  change. 
There  was  a  sketch  of  the  story  of  the  Lost  Prince  to 
begin  with.  It  had  been  regarded  by  most  people,  the 
article  said,  as  a  sort  of  legend.  Now  there  was  a 
definite  rumor  that  it  was  not  a  legend  at  all,  but  a  part 
of  the  long  past  history  of  Samavia.  It  was  said  that 
through  the  centuries  there  had  always  been  a  party 
72 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

secretly  loyal  to  the  memory  of  this  worshiped  and 
lost  Fedorovitch.  It  was  even  said  that  from  father  to 
son,  generation  after  generation  after  generation,  had 
descended  the  oath  of  fealty  to  him  and  his  descend- 
ants. The  people  had  made  a  god  of  him,  and  now, 
romantic  as  it  seemed,  it  was  beginning  to  be  an  open 
secret  that  some  persons  believed  that  a  descendant  had 
been  found  —  a  Fedorovitch  worthy  of  his  young  an- 
cestor —  and  that  a  certain  Secret  Party  also  held 
that,  if  he  were  called  back  to  the  throne  of  Samavia, 
the  interminable  wars  and  bloodshed  would  reach  an 
end. 

The  Rat  had  begun  to  bite  his  nails  fast. 

"  Do  you  believe  he  's  found?  "  he  asked  feverishly. 
" Don't  you?     I  do!" 

"I  wonder  where  he  is,  if  it's  true?  I  wonder! 
Where?"  exclaimed  Marco.  He  could  say  that,  and 
he  might  seem  as  eager  as  he  felt. 

The  Squad  all  began  to  jabber  at  once.  "  Yus, 
where  wos'e?  There  is  no  knowin'.  It 'd  be  likely 
to  be  in  some  o'  these  furrin  places.  England  'd  be 
too  far  from  Samavia.  'Ow  far  off  wos  Samavia? 
Wos  it  in  Roosha,  or  where  the  Frenchies  were,  or  the 
Germans  ?  But  wherever  'e  wos,  'e  'd  be  the  right 
sort,  an'  'e  'd  be  the  sort  a  chap  'd  turn  and  look  at  in 
the  street." 

The  Rat  continued  to  bite  his  nails. 

"  He  might  be  anywhere,"  he  said,  his  small  fierce 
face  glowing.  "  That 's  what  I  like  to  think  about. 
73 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

He  might  be  passing  in  the  street  outside  there;  he 
might  be  up  in  one  of  those  houses,"  jerking  his  head 
over  his  shoulder  toward  the  backs  of  the  inclosing 
dwellings.  "  Perhaps  he  knows  he  's  a  king,  and  per- 
haps he  does  n't.  He  'd  know  if  what  you  said  yes- 
terday was  true  —  about  the  king  always  being  made 
ready  for  Samavia." 

"  Yes,  he  'd  know,"  put  in  Marco. 

"  Well,  it  'd  be  finer  if  he  did,"  went  on  The  Rat. 
"  However  poor  and  shabby  he  was,  he  'd  know  the 
secret  all  the  time.  And  if  people  sneered  at  him,  he  'd 
sneer  at  them  and  laugh  to  himself.  I  dare  say  he  'd 
walk  tremendously  straight  and  hold  his  head  up.  If 
I  was  him,  I  'd  like  to  make  people  suspect  a  bit  that  I 
was  n't  like  the  common  lot  o'  them."  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  pushed  Marco  excitedly.  "  Let 's  work  out 
plots  for  him !  "  he  said.  "  That  'd  be  a  splendid 
game !     Let 's  pretend  we  're  the  Secret  Party !  " 

He  was  tremendously  excited.  Out  of  the  ragged 
pocket  he  fished  a  piece  of  chalk.  Then  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  began  to  draw  something  quickly  on  the 
flagstones  closest  to  his  platform.  The  Squad  leaned 
forward  also,  quite  breathlessly,  and  Marco  leaned 
forward.  The  chalk  was  sketching  a  roughly  outlined 
map,  and  he  knew  what  map  it  was,  before  The  Rat 
spoke. 

"  That 's  a  map  of  Samavia,"  he  said.  "  It  was  in 
that  piece  of  magazine  I  told  you  about  —  the  one 
where  I  read  about  Prince  Ivor.  I  studied  it  until  it 
74 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

fell  to  pieces.  But  I  could  draw  it  myself  by  that 
time,  so  it  did  n't  matter.  I  could  draw  it  with  my 
eyes  shut.  That 's  the  capital  city,"  pointing  to  a 
spot.  "  It 's  called  Melzarr.  The  palace  is  there. 
It 's  the  place  where  the  first  of  the  Maranovitch  killed 
the  last  of  the  Fedorovitch  —  the  bad  chap  that  was 
Ivor's  father.  It 's  the  palace  Ivor  wandered  out  of 
singing  the  shepherds'  song  that  early  morning.  It 's 
where  the  throne  is  that  his  descendant  would  sit  upon 
to  be  crowned  —  that  he  's  going  to  sit  upon.  I  be- 
lieve he  is !  Let 's  swear  he  shall !  "  He  flung  down 
his  piece  of  chalk  and  sat  up.  "  Give  me  two  sticks. 
Help  me  to  get  up." 

Two  of  the  Squad  sprang  to  their  feet  and  came 
to  him.  Each  snatched  one  of  the  sticks  from  the 
stacked  rifles,  evidently  knowing  what  he  wanted. 
Marco  rose  too,  and  watched  with  sudden,  keen  curi- 
osity. He  had  thought  that  The  Rat  could  not  stand 
up,  but  it  seemed  that  he  could,  in  a  fashion  of  his 
own,  and  he  was  going  to  do  it.  The  boys  lifted  him 
by  his  arms,  set  him  against  the  stone  coping  of  the 
iron  railings  of  the  churchyard,  and  put  a  stick  in  each 
of  his  hands.  They  stood  at  his  side,  but  he  sup- 
ported himself. 

"  'E  could  get  about  if  'e  'ad  the  money  to  buy 
crutches !  "  said  one  whose  name  was  Cad,  and  he  said 
it  quite  proudly.  The  queer  thing  that  Marco  had 
noticed  was  that  the  ragamuffins  were  proud  of  The 
Rat,  and  regarded  him  as  their  lord  and  master. 
75 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

" — 'E  could  get  about  an'  stand  as  well  as  any  one," 
added  the  other,  and  he  said  it  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
boasts.     His  name  was  Ben. 

"  I  'm  going  to  stand  now,  and  so  are  the  rest  of 
you,"  said  The  Rat.  "  Squad !  'Tention !  You  at 
the  head  of  the  line,"  to  Marco.  They  were  in  line 
in  a  moment  —  straight,  shoulders  back,  chins  up. 
And  Marco  stood  at  the  head. 

"  We  're  going  to  take  an  oath,"  said  The  Rat. 
"  It 's  an  oath  of  allegiance.  Allegiance  means  faith- 
fulness to  a  thing  —  a  king  or  a  country.  Ours  means 
allegiance  to  the  King  of  Samavia.  We  don't  know 
where  he  is,  but  we  swear  to  be  faithful  to  him,  to 
fight  for  him,  to  plot  for  him,  to  die  for  him,  and  to 
bring  him  back  to  his  throne !  "  The  way  in  which 
he  flung  up  his  head  when  he  said  the  word  "  die  "  was 
very  fine  indeed.  "  We  are  the  Secret  Party.  We 
will  work  in  the  dark  and  find  out  things  —  and  run 
risks  —  and  collect  an  army  no  one  will  know  any- 
thing about  until  it  is  strong  enough  to  suddenly  rise 
at  a  secret  signal,  and  overwhelm  the  Maranovitch  and 
Iarovitch,  and  seize  their  forts  and  citadels.  No  one 
even  knows  we  are  alive.  We  are  a  silent,  secret  thing 
that  never  speaks  aloud !  " 

Silent  and  secret  as  they  were,  however,  they  spoke 
aloud  at  this  juncture.     It  was  such  a  grand  idea  for 
a  game,  and  so  full  of  possible  larks,  that  the  Squad 
broke  into  a  howl  of  an  exultant  cheer. 
76 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

"  Hooray !  "  they  yelled.  "  Hooray  for  the  oath  of 
'legiance !     'Ray !  'ray !  'ray !  " 

"  Shut  up,  you  swine !  "  shouted  The  Rat.  "  Is  that 
the  way  you  keep  yourself  secret?  You'll  call  the 
police  in,  you  fools!  Look  at  him!3'  pointing  to 
Marco.     "  He  's  got  some  sense." 

Marco,  in  fact,  had  not  made  any  sound. 

"  Come  here,  you  Cad  and  Ben,  and  put  me  back  on 
my  wheels,"  raged  the  Squad's  commander.  "  I  '11 
not  make  up  the  game  at  all.  It 's  no  use  with  a  lot 
of  fat-head,  raw  recruits  like  you." 

The  line  broke  and  surrounded  him  in  a  moment, 
pleading  and  urging. 

"  Aw,  Rat !  We  forgot.  It 's  the  primest  game 
you  've  ever  thought  out !  Rat !  Rat !  Don't  get  a 
grouch  on !  We  '11  keep  still,  Rat !  Primest  lark  of 
all  '11  be  the  sneakin'  about  an'  keepin'  quiet.  Aw, 
Rat !     Keep  it  up !  " 

"  Keep  it  up  yourselves !  "  snarled  The  Rat. 

"  Not  another  cove  of  us  could  do  it  but  you !  Not 
one !  There 's  no  other  cove  could  think  it  out. 
You  're  the  only  chap  that  can  think  out  things.  You 
thought  out  the  Squad!  That's  why  you're  cap- 
tain ! " 

This  was  true.     He  was  the  one  who  could  invent 

entertainment  for  them,  these  street  lads  who  had 

nothing.     Out  of  that  nothing  he  could  create  what 

excited  them,  and  give  them  something  to  fill  empty, 

77 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

useless,  often  cold  or  wet  or  foggy,  hours.  That  made 
him  their  captain  and  their  pride. 

The  Rat  began  to  yield,  though  grudgingly.  He 
pointed  again  to  Marco,  who  had  not  moved,  but  stood 
still  at  attention. 

"Look  at  him!"  he  said.  "He  knows  enough  to 
stand  where  he  's  put  until  he  's  ordered  to  break  line. 
He  's  a  soldier,  he  is  —  not  a  raw  recruit  that  don't 
know  the  goose-step.  He 's  been  in  barracks  be- 
fore." 

But  after  this  outburst,  he  deigned  to  go  on. 

"  Here  's  the  oath,"  he  said.  "  We  swear  to  stand 
any  torture  and  submit  in  silence  to  any  death  rather 
than  betray  our  secret  and  our  king.  We  will  obey  in 
silence  and  in  secret.  We  will  swim  through  seas  of 
blood  and  fight  our  way  through  lakes  of  fire,  if  we 
are  ordered.  Nothing  shall  bar  our  way.  All  we  do 
and  say  and  think  is  for  our  country  and  our  king. 
If  any  of  you  have  anything  to  say,  speak  out  before 
you  take  the  oath." 

He  saw  Marco  move  a  little,  and  he  made  a  sign  to 
him. 

"  You,"  he  said.     "  Have  you  something  to  say?  " 

Marco  turned  to  him  and  saluted. 

"  Here  stand  ten  men  for  Samavia.  God  be 
thanked !  "  he  said.  He  dared  say  that  much,  and  he 
felt  as  if  his  father  himself  would  have  told  him  that 
they  were  the  right  words. 

The  Rat  thought  they  were.  Somehow  he  felt  that 
78 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

they  struck  home.  He  reddened  with  a  sudden  emo- 
tion. 

"  Squad !  "  he  said.  "  I  '11  let  you  give  three  cheers 
on  that.  It 's  for  the  last  time.  We  '11  begin  to  be 
quiet  afterward." 

And  to  the  Squad's  exultant  relief  he  led  the  cheer, 
and  they  were  allowed  to  make  as  much  uproar  as 
they  liked.  They  liked  to  make  a  great  deal,  and  when 
it  was  at  an  end,  it  had  done  them  good  and  made 
them  ready  for  business. 

The  Rat  opened  the  drama  at  once.  Never  surely 
had  there  ever  before  been  heard  a  conspirator's  whis- 
per as  hollow  as  his. 

"  Secret  Ones,"  he  said,  "  it  is  midnight.  We  meet 
in  the  depths  of  darkness.  We  dare  not  meet  by  day. 
When  we  meet  in  the  daytime,  we  pretend  not  to  know 
each  other.  We  are  meeting  now  in  a  Samavian  city 
where  there  is  a  fortress.  We  shall  have  to  take  it 
when  the  secret  sign  is  given  and  we  make  our  rising. 
We  are  getting  everything  ready,  so  that,  when  we  find 
the  king,  the  secret  sign  can  be  given." 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  city  we  are  in?"  whis- 
pered Cad. 

"  It  is  called  Larrina.  It  is  an  important  seaport. 
We  must  take  it  as  soon  as  we  rise.  The  next  time  we 
meet  I  will  bring  a  dark  lantern  and  draw  a  map  and 
show  it  to  you." 

It  would  have  been  a  great  advantage  to  the  game 
if  Marco  could  have  drawn  for  them  the  map  he  could 
79 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

have  made,  a  map  which  would  have  shown  every 
fortress  —  every  stronghold  and  every  weak  place. 
Being  a  boy,  he  knew  what  excitement  would  have 
thrilled  each  breast,  how  they  would  lean  forward  and 
pile  question  on  question,  pointing  to  this  place  and  to 
that.  He  had  learned  to  draw  the  map  before  he  was 
ten,  and  he  had  drawn  it  again  and  again  because  there 
had  been  times  when  his  father  had  told  him  that 
changes  had  taken  place.  Oh,  yes!  he  could  have 
drawn  a  map  which  would  have  moved  them  to  a 
frenzy  of  joy.  But  he  sat  silent  and  listened,  only 
speaking  when  he  asked  a  question,  as  if  he  knew  noth- 
ing more  about  Samavia  than  The  Rat  did.  What  a 
Secret  Party  they  were!  They  drew  themselves  to- 
gether in  the  closest  of  circles;  they  spoke  in  unearthly 
whispers. 

"  A  sentinel  ought  to  be  posted  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,"  Marco  whispered. 

"  Ben,  take  your  gun !  "  commanded  The  Rat. 

Ben  rose  stealthily,  and,  shouldering  his  weapon, 
crept  on  tiptoe  to  the  opening.  There  he  stood  on 
guard. 

"  My  father  says  there  's  been  a  Secret  Party  in  Sa- 
mavia for  a  hundred  years,"  The  Rat  whispered. 

"  Who  told  him?  "  asked  Marco. 

"  A  man  who  has  been  in  Samavia,"  answered  The 

Rat.     "  He  said  it  was  the  most  wonderful  Secret 

Party  in  the  world,  because  it  has  worked  and  waited 

so  long,  and  never  given  up,  though  it  has  had  no  rea- 

80 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

son  for  hoping.  It  began  among  some  shepherds  and 
charcoal-burners  who  bound  themselves  by  an  oath  to 
find  the  Lost  Prince  and  bring  him  back  to  the  throne. 
There  were  too  few  of  them  to  do  anything  against 
the  Maranovitch,  and  when  the  first  lot  found  they 
were  growing  old,  they  made  their  sons  take  the  same 
oath.  It  has  been  passed  on  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration, and  in  each  generation  the  band  has  grown. 
No  one  really  knows  how  large  it  is  now,  but  they  say 
that  there  are  people  in  nearly  all  the  countries  in 
Europe  who  belong  to  it  in  dead  secret,  and  are  sworn 
to  help  it  when  they  are  called.  They  are  only  wait- 
ing. Some  are  rich  people  who  will  give  money,  and 
some  are  poor  ones  who  will  slip  across  the  frontier  to 
fight  or  to  help  to  smuggle  in  arms.  They  even  say 
that  for  all  these  years  there  have  been  arms  made  in 
caves  in  the  mountains,  and  hidden  there  year  after 
year.  There  are  men  who  are  called  Forgers  of  the 
Sword,  and  they,  and  their  fathers,  and  grandfathers, 
and  great  grandfathers  have  always  made  swords  and 
stored  them  in  caverns  no  one  knows  of,  hidden  caverns 
underground." 

Marco  spoke  aloud  the  thought  which  had  come  into 
his  mind  as  he  listened,  a  thought  which  brought  fear 
to  him.  "If  the  people  in  the  streets  talk  about  it, 
they  won't  be  hidden  long." 

"  It  is  n't  common  talk,  my  father  says.  Only  very 
few  have  guessed,  and  most  of  them  think  it  is  part  of 
the  Lost  Prince  legend,"  said  The  Rat.  "  The  Maran- 
81 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ovitch  and  Iarovitch  laugh  at  it.  They  have  always 
been  great  fools.  They  're  too  full  of  their  own  swag- 
ger to  think  anything  can  interfere  with  them." 

"  Do  you  talk  much  to  your  father  ?  "  Marco  asked 
him. 

The  Rat  showed  his  sharp  white  teeth  in  a  grin. 

"  I  know  what  you  're  thinking  of,"  he  said. 
"  You  're  remembering  that  I  said  he  was  always 
drunk.  So  he  is,  except  when  he  's  only  half  drunk. 
And  when  he  's  half  drunk,  he  's  the  most  splendid 
talker  in  London.  He  remembers  everything  he  has 
ever  learned  or  read  or  heard  since  he  was  born.  I 
get  him  going  and  listen.  He  wants  to  talk  and  I 
want  to  hear.  I  found  out  almost  everything  I  know 
in  that  way.  He  did  n't  know  he  was  teaching  me,  but 
he  was.  He  goes  back  into  being  a  gentleman  when 
he  's  half  drunk." 

"If  —  if  you  care  about  the  Samavians,  you  'd  bet- 
ter ask  him  not  to  tell  people  about  the  Secret  Party 
and  the  Forgers  of  the  Sword,"  suggested  Marco. 

The  Rat  started  a  little. 

"  That 's  true !  "  he  said.  "  You  're  sharper  than  I 
am.  It  ought  n't  to  be  blabbed  about,  or  the  Marano- 
vitch  might  hear  enough  to  make  them  stop  and  listen. 
I  '11  get  him  to  promise.  There 's  one  queer  thing 
about  him,"  he  added  very  slowly,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing it  over,  "  I  suppose  it 's  part  of  the  gentleman 
that 's  left  in  him.  If  he  makes  a  promise,  he  never 
breaks  it,  drunk  or  sober." 
82 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

"Ask  him  to  make  one,"  said  Marco.  The  next 
moment  he  changed  the  subject  because  it  seemed  the 
best  thing  to  do.  "Go  on  and  tell  us  what  our  own 
Secret  Party  is  to  do.  We  're  forgetting,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

The  Rat  took  up  his  game  with  renewed  keenness. 
It  was  a  game  which  attracted  him  immensely  because 
it  called  upon  his  imagination  and  held  his  audience 
spellbound,  besides  plunging  him  into  war  and 
strategy. 

"  We  're  preparing  for  the  rising,"  he  said.  "  It 
must  come  soon.  We  've  waited  so  long.  The  cav- 
erns are  stacked  with  arms.  The  Maranovitch  and 
the  Iarovitch  are  fighting  and  using  all  their  soldiers, 
and  now  is  our  time."  He  stopped  and  thought,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees.     He  began  to  bite  his  nails  again. 

"  The  Secret  Signal  must  be  given,"  he  said.  Then 
he  stopped  again,  and  the  Squad  held  its  breath  and 
pressed  nearer  with  a  softly  shuffling  sound.  "  Two 
of  the  Secret  Ones  must  be  chosen  by  lot  and  sent 
forth,"  he  went  on;  and  the  Squad  almost  brought 
ruin  and  disgrace  upon  itself  by  wanting  to  cheer 
again,  and  only  just  stopping  itself  in  time.  "  Must 
be  chosen  by  lot,"  The  Rat  repeated,  looking  from 
one  face  to  another.  "  Each  one  will  take  his  life  in 
his  hand  when  he  goes  forth.  He  may  have  to  die  a 
thousand  deaths,  but  he  must  go.  He  must  steal  in 
silence  and  disguise  from  one  country  to  another. 
Wherever  there  is  one  of  the  Secret  Party,  whether  he 
83 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

is  in  a  hovel  or  on  a  throne,  the  messengers  must  go 
to  him  in  darkness  and  stealth  and  give  him  the  sign. 
It  will  mean,  '  The  hour  has  come.  God  save  Sa- 
mavia ! '  " 

"  God  save  Samavia! "  whispered  the  Squad,  excit- 
edly. And,  because  they  saw  Marco  raise  his  hand 
to  his  forehead,  every  one  of  them  saluted. 

They  all  began  to  whisper  at  once. 

"  Let 's  draw  lots  now.  Let 's  draw  lots,  Rat. 
Don't  let 's  'ave  no  waitin'." 

The  Rat  began  to  look  about  him  with  dread  anxiety. 
He  seemed  to  be  examining  the  sky. 

"  The  darkness  is  not  as  thick  as  it  was,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  Midnight  has  passed.  The  dawn  of  day 
will  be  upon  us.  If  any  one  has  a  piece  of  paper  or  a 
string,  we  will  draw  the  lots  before  we  part." 

Cad  had  a  piece  of  string,  and  Marco  had  a  knife 
which  could  be  used  to  cut  it  into  lengths.  This  The 
Rat  did  himself.  Then,  after  shutting  his  eyes  and 
mixing  them,  he  held  them  in  his  hand  ready  for  the 
drawing. 

"  The  Secret  One  who  draws  the  longest  lot  is 
chosen.  The  Secret  One  who  draws  the  shortest  is 
chosen,"  he  said  solemnly. 

The  drawing  was  as  solemn  as  his  tone.  Each  boy 
wanted  to  draw  either  the  shortest  lot  or  the  longest 
one.  The  heart  of  each  thumped  somewhat  as  he 
drew  his  piece  of  string. 

When  the  drawing  was  at  an  end,  each  showed  his 
84 


THE  DRILL  AND  THE  SECRET  PARTY 

lot.  The  Rat  had  drawn  the  shortest  piece  of  string, 
and  Marco  had  drawn  the  longest  one. 

"  Comrade !  "  said  The  Rat,  taking  his  hand.  "  We 
will  face  death  and  danger  together ! " 

"  God  save  Samavia !  "  answered  Marco. 

And  the  game  was  at  an  end  for  the  day.  The 
primest  thing,  the  Squad  said,  The  Rat  had  ever  made 
up  for  them.     "  'E  wos  a  wonder,  he  wos !  " 


85 


CHAPTER  VII 

"the  lamp  is  lighted!" 

ON  his  way  home,  Marco  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  story  he  must  tell  his  father,  the  story  the 
stranger  who  had  been  to  Samavia  had  told  The  Rat's 
father.  He  felt  that  it  must  be  a  true  story  and  not 
merely  an  invention.  The  Forgers  of  the  Sword  must 
be  real  men,  and  the  hidden  subterranean  caverns 
stacked  through  the  centuries  with  arms  must  be  real, 
too.  And  if  they  were  feal,  surely  his  father  was  one 
of  those  who  knew  the  secret.  His  thoughts  ran  very 
fast.  The  Rat's  boyish  invention  of  the  rising  was 
only  part  of  a  game,  but  how  natural  it  would  be  that 
sometime  —  perhaps  before  long  —  there  would  be  a 
real  rising!  Surely  there  would  be  one  if  the  Secret 
Party  had  grown  so  strong,  and  if  many  weapons  and 
secret  friends  in  other  countries  were  ready  and  wait- 
ing. During  all  these  years,  hidden  work  and  prepa- 
ration would  have  been  going  on  continually,  even 
though  it  was  preparation  for  an  unknown  day.  A 
party  which  had  lasted  so  long  —  which  passed  its 
oath  on  from  generation  to  generation  —  must  be  of  a 
deadly  determination.  What  might  it  not  have  made 
ready  in  its  caverns  and  secret  meeting-places!  He 
86 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

longed  to  reach  home  and  tell  his  father,  at  once,  all 
he  had  heard.  He  recalled  to  mind,  word  for  word, 
all  that  The  Rat  had  been  told,  and  even  all  he  had 
added  in  his  game,  because  —  well,  because  that  seemed 
so  real  too,  so  real  that  it  actually  might  be  useful. 

But  when  he  reached  No.  7  Philibert  Place,  he 
found  Loristan  and  Lazarus  very  much  absorbed  in 
work.  The  door  of  the  back  sitting-room  was  locked 
when  he  first  knocked  on  it,  and  locked  again  as  soon 
as  he  had  entered.  There  were  many  papers  on  the 
table,  and  they  were  evidently  studying  them.  Sev- 
eral of  them  were  maps.  Some  were  road  maps,  some 
maps  of  towns  and  cities,  and  some  of  fortifications; 
but  they  were  all  maps  of  places  in  Samavia.  They 
were  usually  kept  in  a  strong  box,  and  when  they  were 
taken  out  to  be  studied,  the  door  was  always  kept 
locked. 

Before  they  had  their  evening  meal,  these  were  all 
returned  to  the  strong  box,  which  was  pushed  into  a 
corner  and  had  newspapers  piled  upon  it. 

"  When  he  arrives,"  Marco  heard  Loristan  say  to 
Lazarus,  "  we  can  show  him  clearly  what  has  been 
planned.     He  can  see  for  himself." 

His  father  spoke  scarcely  at  all  during  the  meal, 
and,  though  it  was  not  the  habit  of  Lazarus  to  speak 
at  such  times  unless  spoken  to,  this  evening  it  seemed 
to  Marco  that  he  looked  more  silent  than  he  had  ever 
seen  him  look  before.  They  were  plainly  both  think- 
ing anxiously  of  deeply  serious  things.  The  story  of 
87 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  stranger  who  had  been  to  Samavia  must  not  be 
told  yet.     But  it  was  one  which  would  keep. 

Loristan  did  not  say  anything  until  Lazarus  had  re- 
moved the  things  from  the  table  and  made  the  room 
as  neat  as  possible.  While  that  was  being  done,  he 
sat  with  his  forehead  resting  on  his  hand,  as  if  ab- 
sorbed in  thought.     Then  he  made  a  gesture  to  Marco. 

"  Come  here,  Comrade,"  he  said. 

Marco  went  to  him. 

"  To-night  some  one  may  come  to  talk  with  me  about 
grave  things,"  he  said.  "  I  think  he  will  come,  but  I 
cannot  be  quite  sure.  It  is  important  that  he  should 
know  that,  when  he  comes,  he  will  find  me  quite  alone. 
He  will  come  at  a  late  hour,  and  Lazarus  will  open  the 
door  quietly  that  no  one  may  hear.  It  is  important 
that  no  one  should  see  him.  Some  one  must  go  and 
walk  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  until  he  ap- 
pears. Then  the  one  who  goes  to  give  warning  must 
cross  the  pavement  before  him  and  say  in  a  low  voice, 
'  The  Lamp  is  lighted ! '  and  at  once  turn  quietly 
away." 

What  boy's  heart  would  not  have  leaped  with  joy 
at  the  mystery  of  it!  Even  a  common  and  dull  boy 
who  knew  nothing  of  Samavia  would  have  felt  jerky. 
Marco's  voice  almost  shook  with  the  thrill  of  his  feel- 
ing. 

"  How  shall  I  know  him  ?  "  he  said  at  once.  With- 
out asking  at  all,  he  knew  he  was  the  "  some  one " 
who  was  to  go. 

88 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

"  You  have  seen  him  before,"  Loristan  answered. 
"  He  is  the  man  who  drove  in  the  carriage  with  the 
King." 

"  I  shall  know  him,"  said  Marco.  "  When  shall  I 
go?" 

"  Not  until  it  is  half-past  one  o'clock.  Go  to  bed 
and  sleep  until  Lazarus  calls  you."  Then  he  added, 
"  Look  well  at  his  face  before  you  speak.  He  will 
probably  not  be  dressed  as  well  as  he  was  when  you 
saw  him  first." 

Marco  went  up-stairs  to  his  room  and  went  to  bed 
as  he  was  told,  but  it  was  hard  to  go  to  sleep.  The 
rattle  and  roaring  of  the  road  did  not  usually  keep  him 
awake,  because  he  had  lived  in  the  poorer  quarter  of 
too  many  big  capital  cities  not  to  be  accustomed  to 
noise.  But  to-night  it  seemed  to  him  that,  as  he  lay 
and  looked  out  at  the  lamplight,  he  heard  every  bus 
and  cab  which  went  past.  He  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  people  who  were  in  them,  and  on  top  of  them, 
and  of  the  people  who  were  hurrying  along  on  the 
pavement  outside  the  broken  iron  railings.  He  was 
wondering  what  they  would  think  if  they  knew  that 
things  connected  with  the  battles  they  read  of  in  the 
daily  papers  were  going  on  in  one  of  the  shabby  houses 
they  scarcely  gave  a  glance  to  as  they  went  by  them. 
It  must  be  something  connected  with  the  war,  if  a 
man  who  was  a  great  diplomat  and  the  companion  of 
kings  came  in  secret  to  talk  alone  with  a  patriot  who 
was  a  Samavian.     Whatever  his  father  was  doing  was 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

for  the  good  of  Samavia,  and  perhaps  the  Secret  Party- 
knew  he  was  doing  it.  His  heart  almost  beat  aloud 
under  his  shirt  as  he  lay  on  the  lumpy  mattress  think- 
ing it  over.  He  must  indeed  look  well  at  the  stranger 
before  he  even  moved  toward  him.  He  must  be  sure 
he  was  the  right  man.  The  game  he  had  amused  him- 
self with  so  long  —  the  game  of  trying  to  remember 
pictures  and  people  and  places  clearly  and  in  detail  — 
had  been  a  wonderful  training.  If  he  could  draw,  he 
knew  he  could  have  made  a  sketch  of  the  keen-eyed, 
clever,  aquiline  face  with  the  well-cut  and  delicately 
close  mouth,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  shut  upon 
secrets  always  —  always.  If  he  could  draw,  he  found 
himself  saying  again.  He  could  draw,  though  per- 
haps only  roughly.  He  had  often  amused  himself  by 
making  sketches  of  things  he  wanted  to  ask  questions 
about.  He  had  even  drawn  people's  faces  in  his  un- 
trained way,  and  his  father  had  said  that  he  had  a 
crude  gift  for  catching  a  likeness.  Perhaps  he  could 
make  a  sketch  of  this  face  which  would  show  his  fa- 
ther that  he  knew  and  could  recognize  it. 

He  jumped  out  of  bed  and  went  to  a  table  near  the 
window.  There  was  paper  and  a  pencil  lying  on  it. 
A  street  lamp  exactly  opposite  threw  into  the  room 
quite  light  enough  for  him  to  see  by.  He  half  knelt 
by  the  table  and  began  to  draw.  He  worked  for  about 
twenty  minutes  steadily,  and  he  tore  up  two  or  three 
unsatisfactory  sketches.  The  poor  drawing  would  not 
matter  if  he  could  catch  that  subtle  look  which  was 
90 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

not  slyness  but  something  more  dignified  and  impor- 
tant. It  was  not  difficult  to  get  the  marked,  aristo- 
cratic outline  of  the  features.  A  common-looking  man 
with  less  pronounced  profile  would  have  been  less  easy 
to  draw  in  one  sense.  He  gave  his  mind  wholly  to 
the  recalling  of  every  detail  which  had  photographed 
itself  on  his  memory  through  its  trained  habit.  Grad- 
ually he  saw  that  the  likeness  was  becoming  clearer. 
It  was  not  long  before  it  was  clear  enough  to  be  a 
striking  one.  Any  one  who  knew  the  man  would  recog- 
nize it.     He  got  up,  drawing  a  long  and  joyful  breath. 

He  did  not  put  on  his  shoes,  but  crossed  his  room 
as  noiselessly  as  possible,  and  as  noiselessly  opened  the 
door.  He  made  no  ghost  of  a  sound  when  he  went 
down  the  stairs.  The  woman  who  kept  the  lodging- 
house  had  gone  to  bed,  and  so  had  the  other  lodgers 
and  the  maid  of  all  work.  All  the  lights  were  out  ex- 
cept the  one  he  saw  a  glimmer  of  under  the  door  of  his 
father's  room.  When  he  had  been  a  mere  baby,  he 
had  been  taught  to  make  a  special  sign  on  the  door 
when  he  wished  to  speak  to  Loristan.  He  stood  still 
outside  the  back  sitting-room  and  made  it  now.  It 
was  a  low  scratching  sound  —  two  scratches  and  a  soft 
tap.     Lazarus  opened  the  door  and  looked  troubled. 

"  It  is  not  yet  time,  sir,"  he  said  very  low. 

"  I  know,"  Marco  answered.  "  But  I  must  show 
something  to  my  father."  Lazarus  let  him  in,  and 
Loristan  turned  round  from  his  writing-table  ques- 
tioningly. 

9i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Marco  went  forward  and  laid  the  sketch  down  be- 
fore him. 

"  Look  at  it,"  he  said.  "  I  remember  him  well 
enough  to  draw  that.  I  thought  of  it  all  at  once  — 
that  I  could  make  a  sort  of  picture.  Do  you  think  it 
is  like  him?"     Loristan  examined  it  closely. 

"  It  is  very  like  him,"  he  answered.  "  You  have 
made  me  feel  entirely  safe.  Thanks,  Comrade.  It 
was  a  good  idea." 

There  was  relief  in  the  grip  he  gave  the  boy's  hand, 
and  Marco  turned  away  with  an  exultant  feeling. 
Just  as  he  reached  the  door,  Loristan  said  to  him: 

"  Make  the  most  of  this  gift.  It  is  a  gift.  And  it 
is  true  your  mind  has  had  good  training.  The  more 
you  draw,  the  better.     Draw  everything  you  can." 

Neither  the  street  lamps,  nor  the  noises,  nor  his 
thoughts  kept  Marco  awake  when  he  went  back  to  bed. 
But  before  he  settled  himself  upon  his  pillow  he  gave 
himself  certain  orders.  He  had  both  read,  and  heard 
Loristan  say,  that  the  mind  can  control  the  body  when 
people  once  find  out  that  it  can  do  so.  He  had  tried 
experiments  himself,  and  had  found  out  some  curious 
things.  One  was  that  if  he  told  himself  to  remember 
a  certain  thing  at  a  certain  time,  he  usually  found  that 
he  did  remember  it.  Something  in  his  brain  seemed 
to  remind  him.  He  had  often  tried  the  experiment  of 
telling  himself  to  awaken  at  a  particular  hour,  and  had 
awakened  almost  exactly  at  the  moment  by  the  clock. 

"  I  will  sleep  until  one  o'clock,"  he  said  as  he  shut 
92 


It  was  the  man  who  had  driven  with  the  King! 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

his  eyes.     "  Then  I  will  awaken  and  feel  quite  fresh. 
I  shall  not  be  sleepy  at  all." 

He  slept  as  soundly  as  a  boy  can  sleep.  And  at  one 
o'clock  exactly  he  awakened,  and  found  the  street 
lamp  still  throwing  its  light  through  the  window.  He 
knew  it  was  one  o'clock,  because  there  was  a  cheap 
little  round  clock  on  the  table,  and  he  could  see  the 
time.  He  was  quite  fresh  and  not  at  all  sleepy.  His 
experiment  had  succeeded  again. 

He  got  up  and  dressed.  Then  he  went  down-stairs 
as  noiselessly  as  before.  He  carried  his  shoes  in  his 
hands,  as  he  meant  to  put  them  on  only  when  he 
reached  the  street.  He  made  his  sign  at  his  father's 
door,  and  it  was  Loristan  who  opened  it. 

"  Shall  I  go  now?  "  Marco  asked. 

"  Yes.  Walk  slowly  to  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
Look  in  every  direction.  We  do  not  know  where  he 
will  come  from.  After  you  have  given  him  the  sign, 
then  come  in  and  go  to  bed  again." 

Marco  saluted  as  a  soldier  would  have  done  on  re- 
ceiving an  order.  Then,  without  a  second's  delay,  he 
passed  noiselessly  out  of  the  house. 

Loristan  turned  back  into  the  room  and  stood  si- 
lently in  the  center  of  it.  The  long  lines  of  his  hand- 
some body  looked  particularly  erect  and  stately,  and 
his  eyes  were  glowing  as  if  something  deeply  moved 
him. 

"  There  grows  a  man  for  Samavia,"  he  said  to  Laza- 
rus, who  watched  him.     "  God  be  thanked !  " 
93 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Lazarus's  voice  was  low  and  hoarse,  and  he  saluted 
quite  reverently. 

"  Your  —  sir !  "  he  said.     "  God  save  the  Prince !  " 
"  Yes,"  Loristan  answered,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation,— "  when  he  is  found."     And  he  went  back  to 
his  table  smiling  his  beautiful  smile. 

The  wonder  of  silence  in  the  deserted  streets  of  a 
great  city,  after  midnight  has  hushed  all  the  roar  and 
tumult  to  rest,  is  an  almost  unbelievable  thing.  The 
stillness  in  the  depths  of  a  forest  or  on  a  mountain  top 
is  not  so  strange.  A  few  hours  ago,  the  tumult  was 
rushing  past;  in  a  few  hours  more,  it  will  be  rushing 
past  again.  But  now  the  street  is  a  naked  thing;  a 
distant  policeman's  tramp  on  the  bare  pavement  has  a 
hollow  and  almost  fearsome  sound.  It  seemed  espe- 
cially so  to  Marco  as  he  crossed  the  road.  Had  it  ever 
been  so  empty  and  deadly  silent  before?  Was  it  so 
every  night?  Perhaps  it  was,  when  he  was  fast 
asleep  on  his  lumpy  mattress  with  the  light  from  a 
street  lamp  streaming  into  the  room.  He  listened  for 
the  step  of  the  policeman  on  night-watch,  because  he 
did  not  wish  to  be  seen.  There  was  a  jutting  wall 
where  he  could  stand  in  the  shadow  while  the  man 
passed.  A  policeman  would  stop  to  look  questioningly 
at  a  boy  who  walked  up  and  down  the  pavement  at 
half-past  one  in  the  morning.  Marco  could  wait  until 
he  had  gone  by,  and  then  come  out  into  the  light  and 
look  up  and  down  the  road  and  the  cross  streets. 
94 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

He  heard  his  approaching  footsteps  in  a  few  min- 
utes, and  was  safely  in  the  shadows  before  he  could  be 
seen.  When  the  policeman  passed,  he  came  out  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  road,  looking  on  each  side, 
and  now  and  then  looking  back.  At  first  no  one  was 
in  sight.  Then  a  late  hansom-cab  came  tinkling  along. 
But  the  people  in  it  were  returning  from  some  fes- 
tivity, and  were  laughing  and  talking,  and  noticed 
nothing  but  their  own  joking.  Then  there  was  silence 
again,  and  for  a  long  time,  as  it  seemed  to  Marco,  no 
one  was  to  be  seen.  It  was  not  really  so  long  as  it 
appeared,  because  he  was  anxious.  Then  a  very  early 
vegetable-wagon  on  the  way  from  the  country  to  Co- 
vent  Garden  Market  came  slowly  lumbering  by  with 
its  driver  almost  asleep  on  his  piles  of  potatoes  and 
cabbages.  After  it  had  passed,  there  was  stillness  and 
emptiness  once  more,  until  the  policeman  showed  him- 
self again  on  his  beat,  and  Marco  slipped  into  the 
shadow  of  the  wall  as  he  had  done  before. 

When  he  came  out  into  the  light,  he  had  begun  to 
hope  that  the  time  would  not  seem  long  to  his  father. 
It  had  not  really  been  long,  he  told  himself,  it  had  only 
seemed  so.  But  his  father's  anxiousness  would  be 
greater  than  his  own  could  be.  Loristan  knew  all 
that  depended  on  the  coming  of  this  great  man  who 
sat  side  by  side  with  a  king  in  his  carriage  and  talked 
to  him  as  if  he  knew  him  well. 

"  It  might  be  something  which  all  Samavia  is  wait- 
ing to  know  —  at  least  all  the  Secret  Party,"  Marco 
95 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

thought.  "  The  Secret  Party  is  Samavia," —  he 
started  at  the  sound  of  footsteps.  "  Some  one  is  com- 
ing! "  he  said.     "  It  is  a  man." 

It  was  a  man  who  was  walking  up  the  road  on  the 
same  side  of  the  pavement  as  his  own.  Marco  began 
to  walk  toward  him  quietly  but  rather  rapidly.  He 
thought  it  might  be  best  to  appear  as  if  he  were  some 
boy  sent  on  a  midnight  errand  —  perhaps  to  call  a 
doctor.  Then,  if  it  was  a  stranger  he  passed,  no  sus- 
picion would  be  aroused.  Was  this  man  as  tall  as  the 
one  who  had  driven  with  the  king?  Yes,  he  was  about 
the  same  height,  but  he  was  too  far  away  to  be  recog- 
nizable otherwise.  He  drew  nearer,  and  Marco  no- 
ticed that  he  also  seemed  slightly  to  hasten  his  foot- 
steps. Marco  went  on.  A  little  nearer,  and  he  would 
be  able  to  make  sure.  Yes,  now  he  was  near  enough. 
Yes,  this  man  was  the  same  height  and  not  unlike  in 
figure,  but  he  was  much  younger.  He  was  not  the  one 
who  had  been  in  the  carriage  with  His  Majesty.  He 
was  not  more  than  thirty  years  old.  He  began  swing- 
ing his  cane  and  whistling  a  music-hall  song  softly  as 
Marco  passed  him  without  changing  his  pace. 

It  was  after  the  policeman  had  walked  round  his 
beat  and  disappeared  for  the  third  time,  that  Marco 
heard  footsteps  echoing  at  some  distance  down  a  cross 
street.  After  listening  to  make  sure  that  they  were 
approaching  instead  of  receding  in  another  direction, 
he  placed  himself  at  a  point  where  he  could  watch  the 
length  of  the  thoroughfare.  Yes,  some  one  was  com- 
96 


"THE  LAMP  IS  LIGHTED!" 

ing.  It  was  a  man's  figure  again.  He  was  able  to 
place  himself  rather  in  the  shadow  so  that  the  person 
approaching  would  not  see  that  he  was  being  watched. 
The  solitary  walker  reached  a  recognizable  distance  in 
about  two  minutes'  time.  He  was  dressed  in  an  ordi- 
nary shop-made  suit  of  clothes  which  was  rather 
shabby  and  quite  unnoticeable  in  its  appearance.  His 
common  hat  was  worn  so  that  it  rather  shaded  his 
face.  But  even  before  he  had  crossed  to  Marco's  side 
of  the  road,  the  boy  had  clearly  recognized  him.  It 
was  the  man  who  had  driven  with  the  King ! 

Chance  was  with  Marco.  The  man  crossed  at 
exactly  the  place  which  made  it  easy  for  the  boy  to 
step  lightly  from  behind  him,  walk  a  few  paces  by  his 
side,  and  then  pass  directly  before  him  across  the  pave- 
ment, glancing  quietly  up  into  his  face  as  he  said  in  a 
low  voice  but  distinctly,  the  words  "  The  Lamp  is 
lighted,"  and  without  pausing  a  second  walk  on  his 
way  down  the  road.  He  did  not  slacken  his  pace  or 
look  back  until  he  was  some  distance  away.  Then  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  that  the  figure  had 
crossed  the  street  and  was  inside  the  railings.  It  was 
all  right.  His  father  would  not  be  disappointed.  The 
great  man  had  come. 

He  walked  for  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  went 
home  and  to  bed.  But  he  was  obliged  to  tell  himself 
to  go  to  sleep  several  times  before  his  eyes  closed  for 
the  rest  of  the  night. 

97 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN    EXCITING   GAME 

LORISTAN  referred  only  once  during  the  next 
day  to  what  had  happened. 

"  You  did  your  errand  well.  You  were  not  hurried 
or  nervous,"  he  said.  "  The  Prince  was  pleased  with 
your  calmness." 

No  more  was  said.  Marco  knew  that  the  quiet  men- 
tion of  the  stranger's  title  had  been  made  merely  as  a 
designation.  If  it  was  necessary  to  mention  him  again 
in  the  future,  he  could  be  referred  to  as  "  the  Prince." 
In  various  Continental  countries  there  were  many 
princes  who  were  not  royal  or  even  serene  highnesses 
—  who  were  merely  princes  as  other  nobles  were  dukes 
or  barons.  Nothing  special  was  revealed  when  a  man 
was  spoken  of  as  a  prince.  But  though  nothing  was 
said  on  the  subject  of  the  incident,  it  was  plain  that 
much  work  was  being  done  by  Loristan  and  Lazarus. 
The  sitting-room  door  was  locked,  and  the  maps  and 
documents,  usually  kept  in  the  iron  box,  were  being 
used. 

Marco  went  to  the  Tower  of  London  and  spent  part 
of  the  day  in  living  again  the  stories  which,  centuries 
past,  had  been  inclosed  within  its  massive  and  ancient 
98 


AN  EXCITING  GAME 

stone  walls.  In  this  way,  he  had  throughout  boyhood 
become  intimate  with  people  who  to  most  boys  seemed 
only  the  unreal  creatures  who  professed  to  be  alive  in 
schoolbooks  of  history.  He  had  learned  to  know 
them  as  men  and  women  because  he  had  stood  in  the 
palaces  they  had  been  born  in  and  had  played  in  as 
children,  had  died  in  at  the  end.  He  had  seen  the 
dungeons  they  had  been  imprisoned  in,  the  blocks  on 
which  they  had  laid  their  heads,  the  battlements  on 
which  they  had  fought  to  defend  their  fortressed 
towers,  the  thrones  they  had  sat  upon,  the  crowns  they 
had  worn,  and  the  jeweled  scepters  they  had  held.  He 
had  stood  before  their  portraits  and  had  gazed  curi- 
ously at  their  "  Robes  of  Investiture,"  sewn  with  tens 
of  thousands  of  seed-pearls.  To  look  at  a  man's  face 
and  feel  his  pictured  eyes  follow  you  as  you  move  away 
from  him,  to  see  the  strangely  splendid  garments  he 
once  warmed  with  his  living  flesh,  is  to  realize  that 
history  is  not  a  mere  lesson  in  a  school-book,  but  is  a 
relation  of  the  life  stories  of  men  and  women  who  saw 
strange  and  splendid  days,  and  sometimes  suffered 
strange  and  terrible  things. 

There  were  only  a  few  people  who  were  being  led 
about  sight-seeing.  The  man  in  the  ancient  Beef- 
eaters' costume,  who  was  their  guide,  was  good-na- 
tured, and  evidently  fond  of  talking.  He  was  a  big 
and  stout  man,  with  a  large  face  and  a  small,  merry 
eye.  He  was  rather  like  pictures  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
himself,  which  Marco  remembered  having  seen.  He 
99 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

was  specially  talkative  when  he  stood  by  the  tablet  that 
marks  the  spot  where  stood  the  block  on  which  Lady 
Jane  Grey  had  laid  her  young  head.  One  of  the  sight- 
seers who  knew  little  of  English  history  had  asked 
some  questions  about  the  reasons  for  her  execution. 

"If  her  father-in-law,  the  Duke  of  Northumber- 
land, had  left  that  young  couple  alone  —  her  and  her 
husband,  Lord  Guildford  Dudley  —  they'd  have  kept 
their  heads  on.  He  was  bound  to  make  her  a  queen, 
and  Mary  Tudor  was  bound  to  be  queen  herself.  The 
duke  was  n't  clever  enough  to  manage  a  conspiracy  and 
work  up  the  people.  These  Samavians  we  're  reading 
about  in  the  papers  would  have  done  it  better.  And 
they  're  half-savages." 

"  They  had  a  big  battle  outside  Melzarr  yesterday," 
the  sight-seer  standing  next  to  Marco  said  to  the  young 
woman  who  was  his  companion.  "  Thousands  of  'em 
killed.  I  saw  it  in  big  letters  on  the  boards  as  I  rode 
on  the  top  of  the  bus.  They  're  just  slaughtering  each 
other,  that's  what  they're  doing." 

The  talkative  Beef-eater  heard  him. 

"  They  can't  even  bury  their  dead  fast  enough,"  he 
said.  "  There  '11  be  some  sort  of  plague  breaking  out 
and  sweeping  into  the  countries  nearest  them.  It  '11 
end  by  spreading  all  over  Europe  as  it  did  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  What  the  civilized  countries  have  got  to  do 
is  to  make  them  choose  a  decent  king  and  begin  to  be- 
have themselves." 

"  I  '11  tell  my  father  that  too,"  Marco  thought.  "  It 
ioo 


AN  EXCITING  GAME 

shows  that  everybody  is  thinking  and  talking  of  Sa- 
mavia,  and  that  even  the  common  people  know  it  must 
have  a  real  king.  This  must  be  the  time!"  And 
what  he  meant  was  that  this  must  be  the  time  for 
which  the  Secret  Party  had  waited  and  worked  so  long 
—  the  time  for  the  Rising.  But  his  father  was  out 
when  he  went  back  to  Philibert  Place,  and  Lazarus 
looked  more  silent  than  ever  as  he  stood  behind  his 
chair  and  waited  on  him  through  his  insignificant  meal. 
However  plain  and  scant  the  food  they  had  to  eat,  it 
was  always  served  with  as  much  care  and  ceremony  as 
if  it  had  been  a  banquet. 

"  A  man  can  eat  dry  bread  and  drink  cold  water  as 
if  he  were  a  gentleman,"  his  father  had  said  long  ago. 
"  And  it  is  easy  to  form  careless  habits.  Even  if  one 
is  hungry  enough  to  feel  ravenous,  a  man  who  has 
been  well  bred  will  not  allow  himself  to  look  so.  A 
dog  may,  a  man  may  not.  Just  as  a  dog  may  howl 
when  he  is  angry  or  in  pain  and  a  man  may  not." 

It  was  only  one  of  the  small  parts  of  the  training 
which  had  quietly  made  the  boy,  even  as  a  child,  self- 
controlled  and  courteous,  had  taught  him  ease  and 
grace  of  boyish  carriage,  the  habit  of  holding  his  body 
well  and  his  head  erect,  and  had  given  him  a  certain 
look  of  young  distinction  which,  though  it  assumed 
nothing,  set  him  apart  from  boys  of  carelessly  awk- 
ward bearing. 

"  Is  there  a  newspaper  here  which  tells  of  the  battle, 
Lazarus?"  he  asked,  after  he  had  left  the  table. 

IOI 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "  Your  father  said 
that  you  might  read  it.  It  is  a  black  tale !  "  he  added, 
as  he  handed  him  the  paper. 

It  was  a  black  tale.  As  he  read,  Marco  felt  as  if  he 
could  scarcely  bear  it.  It  was  as  if  Samavia  swam  in 
blood,  and  as  if  the  other  countries  must  stand  aghast 
before  such  furious  cruelties. 

"  Lazarus,"  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet  at  last,  his 
eyes  burning,  "  something  must  stop  it !  There  must 
be  something  strong  enough.  The  time  has  come. 
The  time  has  come."  And  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  because  he  was  too  excited  to  stand  still. 

How  Lazarus  watched  him!  What  a  strong  and 
glowing  feeling  there  was  in  his  own  restrained  face ! 

"  Yes,  sir.  Surely  the  time  has  come,"  he  answered. 
But  that  was  all  he  said,  and  he  turned  and  went  out 
of  the  shabby  back  sitting-room  at  once.  It  was  as  if 
he  felt  it  were  wiser  to  go  before  he  lost  power  over 
himself  and  said  more. 

Marco  made  his  way  to  the  meeting-place  of  the 
Squad,  to  which  The  Rat  had  in  the  past  given  the 
name  of  the  Barracks.  The  Rat  was  sitting  among 
his  followers,  and  he  had  been  reading  the  morning 
paper  to  them,  the  one  which  contained  the  account  of 
the  battle  of  Melzarr.  The  Squad  had  become  the 
Secret  Party,  and  each  member  of  it  was  thrilled  with 
the  spirit  of  dark  plot  and  adventure.  They  all  whis- 
pered when  they  spoke. 

"  This  is  not  the  Barracks  now,"  The  Rat  said.  "  It 
1 02 


AN  EXCITING  GAME 

is  a  subterranean  cavern.  Under  the  floor  of  it  thou- 
sands of  swords  and  guns  are  buried,  and  it  is  piled 
to  the  roof  with  them.  There  is  only  a  small  place 
left  for  us  to  sit  and  plot  in.  We  crawl  in  through  a 
hole,  and  the  hole  is  hidden  by  bushes." 

To  the  rest  of  the  boys  this  was  only  an  exciting 
game,  but  Marco  knew  that  to  The  Rat  it  was  more. 
Though  The  Rat  knew  none  of  the  things  he  knew,  he 
saw  that  the  whole  story  seemed  to  him  a  real  thing. 
The  struggles  of  Samavia,  as  he  had  heard  and  read 
of  them  in  the  newspapers,  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  His  passion  for  soldiering  and  warfare  and  his 
curiously  mature  brain  had  led  him  into  following 
every  detail  he  could  lay  hold  of.  He  had  listened  to 
all  he  had  heard  with  remarkable  results.  He  remem- 
bered things  older  people  forgot  after  they  had  men- 
tioned them.  He  forgot  nothing.  He  had  drawn  on 
the  flagstones  a  map  of  Samavia  which  Marco  saw  was 
actually  correct,  and  he  had  made  a  rough  sketch  of 
Melzarr  and  the  battle  which  had  had  such  disastrous 
results. 

"  The  Maranovitch  had  possession  of  Melzarr,"  he 
explained  with  feverish  eagerness.  "  And  the  Iaro- 
vitch  attacked  them  from  here,"  pointing  with  his  fin- 
ger. "  That  was  a  mistake.  I  should  have  attacked 
them  from  a  place  where  they  would  not  have  been 
expecting  it.  They  expected  attack  on  their  fortifica- 
tions, and  they  were  ready  to  defend  them.  I  believe 
the  enemy  could  have  stolen  up  in  the  night  and  rushed 
103 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

in  here,"  pointing  again.  Marco  thought  he  was  right. 
The  Rat  had  argued  it  all  out,  and  had  studied  Mel- 
zarr  as  he  might  have  studied  a  puzzle  or  an  arith- 
metical problem.  He  was  very  clever,  and  as  sharp  as 
his  queer  face  looked. 

"  I  believe  you  would  make  a  good  general  if  you 
were  grown  up,"  said  Marco.  "  I  'd  like  to  show  your 
maps  to  my  father  and  ask  him  if  he  does  n't  think 
your  stratagem  would  have  been  a  good  one." 

"  Does  he  know  much  about  Samavia  ?  "  asked  The 
Rat. 

"  He  has  to  read  the  newspapers  because  he  writes 
things,"  Marco  answered.  "  And  every  one  is  think- 
ing about  the  war.     No  one  can  help  it." 

The  Rat  drew  a  dingy,  folded  paper  out  of  his 
pocket  and  looked  it  over  with  an  air  of  reflection. 

"  I  '11  make  a  clean  one,"  he  said.  "  I  'd  like  a 
grown-up  man  to  look  at  it  and  see  if  it 's  all  right. 
My  father  was  more  than  half  drunk  when  I  was  draw- 
ing this,  so  I  could  n't  ask  him  questions.  He  '11  kill 
himself  before  long.     He  had  a  sort  of  fit  last  night." 

"  Tell  us,  Rat,  wot  you  an'  Marco  '11  'ave  ter  do. 
Let 's  'ear  wot  you  've  made  up,"  suggested  Cad.  He 
drew  closer,  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  circle,  hugging 
their  knees  with  their  arms. 

"  This  is  what  we  shall  have  to  do,"  began  The  Rat, 

in  the  hollow  whisper  of  a  Secret  Party.     "  The  hour 

has  come.     To  all  the  Secret  Ones  in  Samavia,  and  to 

the  friends  of  the  Secret  Party  in  every  country,  the 

104 


AN  EXCITING  GAME 

sign  must  be  carried.  It  must  be  carried  by  some  one 
who  could  not  be  suspected.  Who  would  suspect  two 
boys  —  and  one  of  them  a  cripple?  The  best  thing  of 
all  for  us  is  that  I  am  a  cripple.  Who  would  suspect 
a  cripple  ?  When  my  father  is  drunk  and  beats  me,  he 
does  it  because  I  won't  go  out  and  beg  in  the  streets 
and  bring  him  the  money  I  get.  He  says  that  people 
will  nearly  always  give  money  to  a  cripple.  I  won't 
be  a  beggar  for  him  —  the  swine  —  but  I  will  be  one 
for  Samavia  and  the  Lost  Prince.  Marco  shall  pre- 
tend to  be  my  brother  and  take  care  of  me.  I  say," 
speaking  to  Marco  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice,  "  can 
you  sing  anything?     It  does  n't  matter  how  you  do  it." 

"  Yes,  I  can  sing,"  Marco  replied. 

"  Then  Marco  will  pretend  he  is  singing  to  make 
people  give  him  money.  I  '11  get  a  pair  of  crutches 
somewhere,  and  part  of  the  time  I  will  go  on  crutches 
and  part  of  the  time  on  my  platform.  We  '11  live  like 
beggars  and  go  wherever  we  want  to.  I  can  whiz  past 
a  man  and  give  the  sign  and  no  one  will  know.  Some- 
times Marco  can  give  it  when  people  are  dropping 
money  into  his  cap.  We  can  pass  from  one  country 
to  another  and  rouse  everybody  who  is  of  the  Secret 
Party.  We  '11  work  our  way  into  Samavia,  and  we  '11 
be  only  two  boys  —  and  one  a  cripple  —  and  nobody 
will  think  we  could  be  doing  anything.  We  '11  beg  in 
great  cities  and  on  the  highroad." 

"  Where  '11  you  get  the  money  to  travel  ?  "  said  Cad. 

"  The  Secret  Party  will  give  it  to  us,  and  we  sha'n't 
105 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

need  much.  We  could  beg  enough,  for  that  matter. 
We  '11  sleep  under  the  stars,  or  under  bridges,  or  arch- 
ways, or  in  dark  corners  of  streets.  I  've  done  it  my- 
self many  a  time  when  my  father  drove  me  out  of 
doors.  If  it's  cold  weather,  it's  bad  enough;  but  if 
it 's  fine  weather,  it 's  better  than  sleeping  in  the  kind  of 
place  I  'm  used  to.  Comrade,"  to  Marco,  "  are  you 
ready?  " 

He  said  "  Comrade  "  as  Loristan  did,  and  somehow 
Marco  did  not  resent  it,  because  he  was  ready  to  labor 
for  Samavia.  It  was  only  a  game,  but  it  made  them 
comrades  —  and  was  it  really  only  a  game,  after  all? 
His  excited  voice  and  his  strange,  lined  face  made  it 
singularly  unlike  one. 

"  Yes,  Comrade,  I  am  ready,"  Marco  answered 
him. 

"  We  shall  be  in  Samavia  when  the  fighting  for  the 
Lost  Prince  begins."  The  Rat  carried  on  his  story 
with  fire.  "  We  may  see  a  battle.  We  might  do 
something  to  help.  We  might  carry  messages  under  a 
rain  of  bullets  —  a  rain  of  bullets !  "  The  thought  so 
elated  him  that  he  forgot  his  whisper  and  his  voice 
rang  out  fiercely.  "  Boys  have  been  in  battles  before. 
We  might  find  the  Lost  King  —  no,  the  Found  King 
—  and  ask  him  to  let  us  be  his  servants.  He  could 
send  us  where  he  could  n't  send  bigger  people.  I  could 
say  to  him,  '  Your  Majesty,  I  am  called  "  The  Rat,"  be- 
cause I  can  creep  through  holes  and  into  corners  and 
dart  about.  Order  me  into  any  danger  and  I  will  obey 
106 


AN  EXCITING  GAME 

you.  Let  me  die  like  a  soldier  if  I  can't  live  like 
one.'  " 

Suddenly  he  threw  his  ragged  coat  sleeve  up  across 
his  eyes.  He  had  wrought  himself  up  tremendously 
with  the  picture  of  the  rain  of  bullets.  And  he  felt 
as  if  he  saw  the  King  who  had  at  last  been  found. 
The  next  moment  he  uncovered  his  face. 

"  That 's  what  we  've  got  to  do,"  he  said.  "  Just 
that,  if  you  want  to  know.  And  a  lot  more.  There  's 
no  end  to  it !  " 

Marco's  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  It  ought  not  to 
be  nothing  but  a  game.  He  grew  quite  hot  all  over. 
If  the  Secret  Party  wanted  to  send  messengers  no  one 
would  think  of  suspecting,  who  could  be  more  harm- 
less-looking than  two  vagabond  boys  wandering  about 
picking  up  their  living  as  best  they  could,  not  seeming 
to  belong  to  any  one?  And  one  a  cripple.  It  was 
true  —  yes,  it  was  true,  as  The  Rat  said,  that  his  be- 
ing a  cripple  made  him  look  safer  than  any  one  else. 
Marco  actually  put  his  forehead  in  his  hands  and 
pressed  his  temples. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed  The  Rat.  "  What 
are  you  thinking  about?  " 

"  I  'm  thinking  what  a  general  you  would  make. 
I  'm  thinking  that  it  might  all  be  real  —  every  word  of 
it.     It  might  n't  be  a  game  at  all,"  said  Marco. 

"  No,  it  might  n't,"  The  Rat  answered.  "  If  I  knew 
where  the  Secret  Party  was,  I  'd  like  to  go  and  tell 
them  about  it.  What 's  that !  "  he  said,  suddenly  turn- 
107 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ing  his  head  toward  the  street.  "  What  are  they  call- 
ing out  ?  " 

Some  newsboy  with  a  particularly  shrill  voice  was 
shouting  out  something  at  the  topmost  power  of  his 
lungs. 

Tense  and  excited,  no  member  of  the  circle  stirred 
or  spoke  for  a  few  seconds.  The  Rat  listened,  Marco 
listened,  the  whole  Squad  listened,  pricking  up  their 
ears. 

"  Startling  news  from  Samavia,"  the  newsboy  was 
shrilling  out.  "Amazing  story!  Descendant  of  the 
Lost  Prince  found!  Descendant  of  the  Lost  Prince 
found!" 

"Any  chap  got  a  penny?"  snapped  The  Rat,  be- 
ginning to  shuffle  toward  the  arched  passage. 

"  I  have !  "  answered  Marco,  following  him. 

"  Come  on !  "  The  Rat  yelled.  "  Let 's  go  and  get  a 
paper!  "  And  he  whizzed  down  the  passage  with  his 
swiftest  rat-like  dart,  while  the  Squad  followed  him, 
shouting  and  tumbling  over  each  other. 


1 08 


The  Rat  whizzed  down  the  passage  while  the  squad  followed  him 


CHAPTER  IX 
"it  is  not  a  game" 

LORISTAN  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  back 
sitting-room  and  listened  to  Marco,  who  sat  by 
the  small  fire  and  talked. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  whenever  the  boy  stopped.  "  I 
want  to  hear  it  all.  He  's  a  strange  lad,  and  it 's  a 
splendid  game." 

Marco  was  telling  him  the  story  of  his  second  and 
third  visits  to  the  inclosure  behind  the  deserted  church- 
yard. He  had  begun  at  the  beginning,  and  his  father 
had  listened  with  a  deep  interest. 

A  year  later,  Marco  recalled  this  evening  as  a  thrill- 
ing memory,  and  as  one  which  would  never  pass  away 
from  him  throughout  his  life.  He  would  always  be 
able  to  call  it  all  back.  The  small  and  dingy  back 
room,  the  dimness  of  the  one  poor  gas-burner,  which 
was  all  they  could  afford  to  light,  the  iron  box  pushed 
into  the  corner  with  its  maps  and  plans  locked  safely 
in  it,  the  erect  bearing  and  actual  beauty  of  the  tall 
form,  which  the  shabbiness  of  worn  and  mended 
clothes  could  not  hide  or  dim.  Not  even  rags  and 
tatters  could  have  made  Loristan  seem  insignificant  or 
undistinguished.  He  was  always  the  same.  His  eyes 
109 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

seemed  darker  and  more  wonderful  than  ever  in  their 
remote  thought  fulness  and  interest  as  he  spoke. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  splendid  game.  And 
it  is  curious.  He  has  thought  it  out  well.  The  lad 
is  a  born  soldier." 

"  It  is  not  a  game  to  him,"  Marco  said.  "  And  it 
is  not  a  game  to  me.  The  Squad  is  only  playing,  but 
with  him  it 's  quite  different.  He  knows  he  '11  never 
really  get  what  he  wants,  but  he  feels  as  if  this  was 
something  near  it.  He  said  I  might  show  you  the  map 
he  made.     Father,  look  at  it." 

He  gave  Loristan  the  clean  copy  of  The  Rat's  map 
of  Samavia.  The  city  of  Melzarr  was  marked  with 
certain  signs.  They  were  to  show  at  what  points  The 
Rat  —  if  he  had  been  a  Samavian  general  —  would 
have  attacked  the  capital.  As  Marco  pointed  them 
out,  he  explained  The  Rat's  reasons  for  his  planning. 

Loristan  held  the  paper  for  some  minutes.  He  fixed 
his  eyes  on  it  curiously,  and  his  black  brows  drew  them- 
selves together. 

"  This  is  very  wonderful !  "  he  said  at  last.  "  He 
is  quite  right.  They  might  have  got  in  there,  and  for 
the  very  reasons  he  hit  on.  How  did  he  learn  all 
this?" 

"  He  thinks  of  nothing  else  now,"  answered  Marco. 
"  He  has  always  thought  of  wars  and  made  plans  for 
battles.  He  's  not  like  the  rest  of  the  Squad.  His 
father  is  nearly  always  drunk,  but  he  is  very  well 
educated,  and,  when  he  is  only  half  drunk,  he  likes  to 


"IT  IS  NOT  A  GAME" 

talk.  The  Rat  asks  him  questions  then,  and  leads 
him  on  until  he  finds  out  a  great  deal.  Then  he  begs 
old  newspapers,  and  he  hides  himself  in  corners  and 
listens  to  what  people  are  saying.  He  says  he  lies 
awake  at  night  thinking  it  out,  and  he  thinks  about  it 
all  the  day.     That  was  why  he  got  up  the  Squad.1' 

Loristan  had  continued  examining  the  paper. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  said,  when  he  refolded  and  handed 
it  back,  "  that  I  studied  his  map,  and  he  may  be  proud 
of  it.  You  may  also  tell  him  — "  and  he  smiled  quietly 
as  he  spoke  — "  that  in  my  opinion  he  is  right.  The 
Iarovitch  would  have  held  Melzarr  to-day  if  he  had 
led  them." 

Marco  was  full  of  exultation. 

"  I  thought  you  would  say  he  was  right.  I  felt 
sure  you  would.  That  is  what  makes  me  want  to  tell 
you  the  rest,"  he  hurried  on.  "If  you  think  he  is 
right  about  the  rest  too — "  He  stopped  awkwardly 
because  of  a  sudden  wild  thought  which  rushed  upon 
him.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think,"  he  stam- 
mered. "  Perhaps  it  will  seem  to  you  as  if  the  game 
—  as  if  that  part  of  it  could  —  could  only  be  a  game." 

He  was  so  fervent  in  spite  of  his  hesitation  that 
Loristan  began  to  watch  him  with  sympathetic  respect, 
as  he  always  did  when  the  boy  was  trying  to  express 
something  he  was  not  sure  of.  One  of  the  great 
bonds  between  them  was  that  Loristan  was  always  in- 
terested in  his  boyish  mental  processes  —  in  the  way  in 
which  his  thoughts  led  him  to  any  conclusion. 
in 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  again.  "  I  am  like  The  Rat  and 
I  am  like  you.  It  has  not  seemed  quite  like  a  game  to 
me,  so  far." 

He  sat  down  at  the  writing-table  and  Marco,  in  his 
eagerness,  drew  nearer  and  leaned  against  it,  resting 
on  his  arms  and  lowering  his  voice,  though  it  was  al- 
ways their  habit  to  speak  at  such  a  pitch  that  no  one 
outside  the  room  they  were  in  could  distinguish  what 
they  said. 

"  It  is  The  Rat's  plan  for  giving  the  signal  for  a 
Rising,"  he  said. 

Loristan  made  a  slight  movement. 

"  Does  he  think  there  will  be  a  Rising?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  says  that  must  be  what  the  Secret  Party  has 
been  preparing  for  all  these  years.  And  it  must  come 
soon.  The  other  nations  see  that  the  fighting  must  be 
put  an  end  to  even  if  they  have  to  stop  it  themselves. 
And  if  the  real  King  is  found  —  but  when  The  Rat 
bought  the  newspaper  there  was  nothing  in  it  about 
where  he  was.  It  was  only  a  sort  of  rumor.  Nobody 
seemed  to  know  anything."  He  stopped  a  few  sec- 
onds, but  he  did  not  utter  the  words  which  were  in  his 
mind.     He  did  not  say :  "  But  you  know." 

"  And  The  Rat  has  a  plan  for  giving  the  signal  ?  " 
Loristan  said. 

Marco  forgot  his  first  feeling  of  hesitation.  He 
began  to  see  the  plan  again  as  he  had  seen  it  when  The 
Rat  talked.  He  began  to  speak  as  The  Rat  had  spoken, 
forgetting  that  it  was  a  game.     He  made  even  a  clearer 

112 


"IT  IS  NOT  A  GAME" 

picture  than  The  Rat  had  made  of  the  two  vagabond 
boys  —  one  of  them  a  cripple  —  making  their  way 
from  one  place  to  another,  quite  free  to  carry  messages 
or  warnings  where  they  chose,  because  they  were  so 
insignificant  and  poor-looking  that  no  one  could  think 
of  them  as  anything  but  waifs  and  strays,  belonging 
to  nobody  and  blown  about  by  the  wind  of  poverty  and 
chance.  He  felt  as  if  he  wanted  to  convince  his 
father  that  the  plan  was  a  possible  one.  He  did  not 
quite  know  why  he  felt  so  anxious  to  win  his  approval 
of  the  scheme  —  as  if  it  were  real  —  as  if  it  could  ac- 
tually be  done.  But  this  feeling  was  what  inspired 
him  to  enter  into  new  details  and  suggest  possibilities. 

"  A  boy  who  was  a  cripple  and  one  who  was  only  a 
street  singer  and  a  sort  of  beggar  could  get  almost 
anywhere,"  he  said.  "  Soldiers  would  listen  to  a 
singer  if  he  sang  good  songs  —  and  they  might  not  be 
afraid  to  talk  before  him.  A  strolling  singer  and  a 
cripple  would  perhaps  hear  a  great  many  things  it 
might  be  useful  for  the  Secret  Party  to  know.  They 
might  even  hear  important  things.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

Before  he  had  gone  far  with  his  story,  the  faraway 
look  had  fallen  upon  Loristan's  face  —  the  look  Marco 
had  known  so  well  all  his  life.  He  sat  turned  a  little 
sidewise  from  the  boy,  his  elbow  resting  on  the  table 
and  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  He  looked  down  at  the 
worn  carpet  at  his  feet,  and  so  he  looked  as  he  listened 
to  the  end.  It  was  as  if  some  new  thought  were  slowly 
113 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

growing  in  his  mind  as  Marco  went  on  talking  and 
enlarging  on  The  Rat's  plan.  He  did  not  even  look 
up  or  change  his  position  as  he  answered,  "  Yes.  I 
think  so." 

But,  because  of  the  deep  and  growing  thought  in 
his  face,  Marco's  courage  increased.  His  first  fear 
that  this  part  of  the  planning  might  seem  so  bold  and 
reckless  that  it  would  only  appear  to  belong  to  a  boy- 
ish game,  gradually  faded  away  for  some  strange  rea- 
son. His  father  had  said  that  the  first  part  of  The 
Rat's  imaginings  had  not  seemed  quite  like  a  game  to 
him,  and  now  —  even  now  —  he  was  not  listening  as 
if  he  were  listening  to  the  details  of  mere  exaggerated 
fancies.  It  was  as  if  the  thing  he  was  hearing  was 
not  wildly  impossible.  Marco's  knowledge  of  Con- 
tinental countries  and  of  methods  of  journeying  helped 
him  to  enter  into  much  detail  and  give  realism  to  his 
plans. 

"  Sometimes  we  could  pretend  we  knew  nothing  but 
English,"  he  said.  "  Then,  though  The  Rat  could  not 
understand,  I  could.  I  should  always  understand  in 
each  country.  I  know  the  cities  and  the  places  we 
should  want  to  go  to.  I  know  how  boys  like  us  live, 
and  so  we  should  not  do  anything  which  would  make 
the  police  angry  or  make  people  notice  us.  If  any  one 
asked  questions,  I  would  let  them  believe  that  I  had  met 
The  Rat  by  chance,  and  we  had  made  up  our  minds  to 
travel  together  because  people  gave  more  money  to  a 
boy  who  sang  if  he  was  with  a  cripple.  There  was  a 
114 


"IT  IS  NOT  A  GAME" 

boy  who  used  to  play  the  guitar  in  the  streets  of  Rome, 
and  he  always  had  a  lame  girl  with  him,  and  every  one 
knew  it  was  for  that  reason.  When  he  played,  people 
looked  at  the  girl  and  were  sorry  for  her  and  gave  her 
soldi.     You  remember." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  And  what  you  say  is  true," 
Loristan  answered. 

Marco  leaned  farther  forward  across  the  table  so 
that  he  came  closer  to  him.  The  tone  in  which  the 
words  were  said  made  his  courage  leap  like  a  flame. 
To  be  allowed  to  go  on  with  this  boldness  was  to  feel 
that  he  was  being  treated  almost  as  if  he  were  a  man. 
If  his  father  had  wished  to  stop  him,  he  could  have 
done  it  with  one  quiet  glance,  without  uttering  a  word. 
For  some  wonderful  reason  he  did  not  wish  him  to 
cease  talking.  He  was  willing  to  hear  what  he  had  to 
say  —  he  was  even  interested. 

"  You  are  growing  older,"  he  had  said  the  night  he 
had  revealed  the  marvelous  secret.  "  Silence  is  still  the 
order,  but  you  are  man  enough  to  be  told  more." 

Was  he  man  enough  to  be  thought  worthy  to  help 
Samavia  in  any  small  way  —  even  with  boyish  fancies 
which  might  contain  a  germ  of  some  thought  which 
older  and  wiser  minds  might  make  useful?  Was  he 
being  listened  to  because  the  plan,  made  as  part  of  a 
game,  was  not  an  impossible  one  —  if  two  boys  who 
could  be  trusted  could  be  found?  He  caught  a  deep 
breath  as  he  went  on,  drawing  still  nearer  and  speak- 
ing so  low  that  his  tone  was  almost  a  whisper. 
ii5 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"If  the  men  of  the  Secret  Party  have  been  working 
and  thinking  for  so  many  years  —  they  have  prepared 
everything.  They  know  by  this  time  exactly  what 
must  be  done  by  the  messengers  who  are  to  give  the 
signal.  They  can  tell  them  where  to  go  and  how  to 
know  the  secret  friends  who  must  be  warned.  If  the 
orders  could  be  written  and  given  to  —  to  some  one 
who  has  —  who  has  learned  to  remember  things ! " 
He  had  begun  to  breathe  so  quickly  that  he  stopped  for 
a  moment. 

Loristan  looked  up.  He  looked  directly  into  his  eyes. 

"  Some  one  who  has  been  trained  to  remember 
things  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Some  one  who  has  been  trained,"  Marco  went  on, 
catching  his  breath  again.  "  Some  one  who  does  not 
forget  —  who  would  never  forget  —  never !  That 
one,  even  if  he  were  only  twelve  —  even  if  he  were 
only  ten  —  could  go  and  do  as  he  was  told."  Loristan 
put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Comrade,"  he  said,  "  you  are  speaking  as  if  you 
were  ready  to  go  yourself." 

Marco's  eyes  looked  bravely  straight  into  his,  but 
he  said  not  one  word. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  would  mean,  Comrade  ?  " 
his  father  went  on.  "  You  are  right.  It  is  not  a 
game.  And  you  are  not  thinking  of  it  as  one.  But 
have  you  thought  how  it  would  be  if  something  be- 
trayed you  —  and  you  were  set  up  against  a  wall  to  be 
shot?" 

116 


"IT  IS  NOT  A  GAME" 

Marco  stood  up  quite  straight.  He  tried  to  believe 
he  felt  the  wall  against  his  back. 

"  If  I  were  shot,  I  should  be  shot  for  Samavia,"  he 
said.     "  And  for  you,  Father." 

Even  as  he  was  speaking,  the  front  door-bell  rang 
and  Lazarus  evidently  opened  it.  He  spoke  to  some 
one,  and  then  they  heard  his  footsteps  approaching 
the  back  sitting-room. 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  Loristan,  and  Marco  opened 
it. 

"  There  is  a  boy  who  is  a  cripple  here,  sir,"  the  old 
soldier  said.     "  He  asked  to  see  Master  Marco." 

"  If  it  is  The  Rat,"  said  Loristan,  "  bring  him  in 
here.     I  wish  to  see  him." 

Marco  went  down  the  passage  to  the  front  door. 
The  Rat  was  there,  but  he  was  not  upon  his  platform. 
He  was  leaning  upon  an  old  pair  of  crutches,  and 
Marco  thought  he  looked  wild  and  strange.  He  was 
white,  and  somehow  the  lines  of  his  face  seemed  twisted 
in  a  new  way.  Marco  wondered  if  something  had 
frightened  him,  or  if  he  felt  ill. 

"  Rat,"  he  began,  "  my  father  — " 

"  I  've  come  to  tell  you  about  my  father,"  The  Rat 
broke  in  without  waiting  to  hear  the  rest,  and  his 
voice  was  as  strange  as  his  pale  face.  "  I  don't  know 
why  I  've  come,  but  I  —  I  just  wanted  to.  He 's 
dead!" 

"Your    father?"    Marco   stammered.     "He's — " 

"  He  's  dead,"  The  Rat  answered  shakily.  "  I  told 
117 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

you  he  'd  kill  himself.  He  had  another  fit  and  he  died 
in  it.  I  knew  he  would,  one  of  these  days.  I  told  him 
so.  He  knew  he  would  himself.  I  stayed  with  him 
till  he  was  dead  —  and  then  I  got  a  bursting  headache 
and  I  felt  sick  —  and  I  thought  about  you." 

Marco  made  a  jump  at  him  because  he  saw  he  was 
suddenly  shaking  as  if  he  were  going  to  fall.  He  was 
just  in  time,  and  Lazarus,  who  had  been  looking  on 
from  the  back  of  the  passage,  came  forward.  To- 
gether they  held  him  up. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  faint,"  he  said  weakly,  "  but  I 
felt  as  if  I  was.  It  was  a  bad  fit,  and  I  had  to  try  and 
hold  him.  I  was  all  by  myself.  The  people  in  the 
other  attic  thought  he  was  only  drunk,  and  they 
would  n't  come  in.  He 's  lying  on  the  floor  there, 
dead." 

"  Come  and  see  my  father,"  Marco  said.  "  He  '11 
tell  us  what  to  do.     Lazarus,  help  him." 

"  I  can  get  on  by  myself,"  said  The  Rat.  "  Do  you 
see  my  crutches?  I  did  something  for  a  pawnbroker 
last  night,  and  he  gave  them  to  me  for  pay." 

But  though  he  tried  to  speak  carelessly,  he  had 
plainly  been  horribly  shaken  and  overwrought.  His 
queer  face  was  yellowish  white  still,  and  he  was  trem- 
bling a  little. 

Marco  led  the  way  into  the  back  sitting-room.     In 
the  midst  of  its  shabby  gloom  and  under  the  dim  light 
Loristan  was  standing  in  one  of  his  still,  attentive  atti- 
tudes.    He  was  waiting  for  them. 
118 


"IT  IS  NOT  A  GAME" 

"  Father,  this  is  The  Rat,"  the  boy  began.  The  Rat 
stopped  short  and  rested  on  his  crutches,  staring  at 
the  tall,  reposeful  figure  with  widened  eyes. 

"  Is  that  your  father?"  he  said  to  Marco.  And 
then  added,  with  a  jerky  half-laugh,  "  He  's  not  much 
like  mine,  is  he  ?  " 


"9 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   RAT AND    SAMAVIA 

WHAT  The  Rat  thought  when  Loristan  began  to 
speak  to  him,  Marco  wondered.  Suddenly  he 
stood  in  an  unknown  world,  and  it  was  Loristan  who 
made  it  so  because  its  poverty  and  shabbiness  had  no 
power  to  touch  him.  He  looked  at  the  boy  with  calm 
and  clear  eyes,  he  asked  him  practical  questions  gently, 
and  it  was  plain  that  he  understood  many  things  with- 
out asking  questions  at  all.  Marco  thought  that  per- 
haps he  had,  at  some  time,  seen  drunken  men  die,  in 
his  life  in  strange  places.  He  seemed  to  know  the 
terribleness  of  the  night  through  which  The  Rat  had 
passed.  He  made  him  sit  down,  and  he  ordered  Laz- 
arus to  bring  him  some  hot  coffee  and  simple  food. 

"  Have  n't  had  a  bite  since  yesterday,"  The  Rat  said, 
still  staring  at  him.     "  How  did  you  know  I  had  n't  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  had  time,"  Loristan  answered. 

Afterward  he  made  him  lie  down  on  the  sofa. 

"  Look  at  my  clothes,"  said  The  Rat. 

"  Lie  down  and  sleep,"  Loristan  replied,  putting  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder  and  gently  forcing  him  toward 
the  sofa.     "  You  will  sleep  a  long  time.     You  must 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

tell  me  how  to  find  the  place  where  your  father  died, 
and  I  will  see  that  the  proper  authorities  are  notified." 

"  What  are  you  doing  it  for  ?  "  The  Rat  asked,  and 
then  he  added,  "  sir." 

"  Because  I  am  a  man  and  you  are  a  boy.  And 
this  is  a  terrible  thing,"  Loristan  answered  him. 

He  went  away  without  saying  more,  and  The  Rat 
lay  on  the  sofa  staring  at  the  wall  and  thinking  about 
it  until  he  fell  asleep.  But,  before  this  happened, 
Marco  had  quietly  left  him  alone.  So,  as  Loristan 
had  told  him  he  would,  he  slept  deeply  and  long;  in 
fact,  he  slept  through  all  the  night. 

When  he  awakened  it  was  morning,  and  Lazarus 
was  standing  by  the  side  of  the  sofa  looking  down  at 
him. 

"  You  will  want  to  make  yourself  clean,"  he  said. 
"  It  must  be  done." 

"  Clean !  "  said  The  Rat,  with  his  squeaky  laugh. 
"  I  could  n't  keep  clean  when  I  had  a  room  to  live  in, 
and  now  where  am  I  to  wash  myself  ?  "  He  sat  up  and 
looked  about  him. 

"  Give  me  my  crutches,"  he  said.  "  I  've  got  to  go. 
They  've  let  me  sleep  here  all  night.  They  did  n't  turn 
me  into  the  street.  I  don't  know  why  they  didn't. 
Marco's  father  —  he's  the  right  sort.  He  looks  like 
a  swell." 

"  The  Master,"  said  Lazarus,  with  a  rigid  manner, 
"  the  Master  is  a  great  gentleman.     He  would  turn  no 

121 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

tired  creature  into  the  street.  He  and  his  son  are  poor, 
but  they  are  of  those  who  give.  He  desires  to  see  and 
talk  to  you  again.  You  are  to  have  bread  and  coffee 
with  him  and  the  young  Master.  But  it  is  I  who  tell 
you  that  you  cannot  sit  at  table  with  them  until  you 
are  clean.  Come  with  me,"  and  he  handed  him  his 
crutches.  His  manner  was  authoritative,  but  it  was 
the  manner  of  a  soldier;  his  somewhat  stiff  and  erect 
movements  were  those  of  a  soldier,  also,  and  The  Rat 
liked  them  because  they  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were 
in  barracks.  He  did  not  know  what  was  going  to 
happen,  but  he  got  up  and  followed  him  on  his 
crutches. 

Lazarus  took  him  to  a  closet  under  the  stairs  where 
a  battered  tin  bath  was  already  full  of  hot  water,  which 
the  old  soldier  himself  had  brought  in  pails.  There 
were  soap  and  coarse,  clean  towels  on  a  wooden  chair, 
and  also  there  was  a  much  worn  but  cleanly  suit  of 
clothes. 

"  Put  these  on  when  you  have  bathed,"  Lazarus  or- 
dered, pointing  to  them.  "  They  belong  to  the  young 
Master  and  will  be  large  for  you,  but  they  will  be 
better  than  your  own."  And  then  he  went  out  of  the 
closet  and  shut  the  door. 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  The  Rat.  So  long  as 
he  remembered,  he  had  washed  his  face  and  hands  — 
when  he  had  washed  them  at  all  —  at  an  iron  tap  set 
in  the  wall  of  a  back  street  or  court  in  some  slum.  His 
father  and  himself  had  long  ago  sunk  into  the  world 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

where  to  wash  one's  self  is  not  a  part  of  every-day 
life.  They  had  lived  amid  dirt  and  foulness,  and  when 
his  father  had  been  in  a  maudlin  state,  he  had  some- 
times cried  and  talked  of  the  long-past  days  when 
he  had  shaved  every  morning  and  put  on  a  clean 
shirt. 

To  stand  even  in  the  most  battered  of  tin  baths  full 
of  clean  hot  water  and  to  splash  and  scrub  with  a  big 
piece  of  flannel  and  plenty  of  soap  was  a  marvelous 
thing.  The  Rat's  tired  body  responded  to  the  novelty 
with  a  curious  feeling  of  freshness  and  comfort. 

"  I  dare  say  swells  do  this  every  day,"  he  muttered. 
"  I  'd  do  it  myself  if  I  was  a  swell.  Soldiers  have  to 
keep  themselves  so  clean  they  shine." 

When,  after  making  the  most  of  his  soap  and  water, 
he  came  out  of  the  closet  under  the  stairs,  he  was  as 
fresh  as  Marco  himself;  and,  though  his  clothes  had 
been  built  for  a  more  stalwart  body,  his  recognition 
of  their  cleanliness  filled  him  with  pleasure.  He  won- 
dered if  by  any  effort  he  could  keep  himself  clean  when 
he  went  out  into  the  world  again  and  had  to  sleep  in 
any  hole  the  police  did  not  order  him  out  of. 

He  wanted  to  see  Marco  again,  but  he  wanted  more 
to  see  the  tall  man  with  the  soft  dark  eyes  and  that 
queer  look  of  being  a  swell  in  spite  of  his  shabby  clothes 
and  the  dingy  place  he  lived  in.  There  was  something 
about  him  which  made  you  keep  on  looking  at  him,  and 
wanting  to  know  what  he  was  thinking  of,  and  why  you 
felt  as  if  you  'd  take  orders  from  him  as  you  'd  take 
123 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

orders  from  your  general,  if  you  were  a  soldier.  He 
looked,  somehow,  like  a  soldier,  but  as  if  he  were  some- 
thing more  —  as  if  people  had  taken  orders  from  him 
all  his  life,  and  always  would  take  orders  from  him. 
And  yet  he  had  that  quiet  voice  and  those  fine,  easy 
movements,  and  he  was  not  a  soldier  at  all,  but  only  a 
poor  man  who  wrote  things  for  papers  which  did  not 
pay  him  well  enough  to  give  him  and  his  son  a  com- 
fortable living.  Through  all  the  time  of  his  seclusion 
with  the  battered  bath  and  the  soap  and  water,  The  Rat 
thought  of  him,  and  longed  to  have  another  look  at  him 
and  hear  him  speak  again.  He  did  not  see  any  reason 
why  he  should  have  let  him  sleep  on  his  sofa  or  why 
he  should  give  him  a  breakfast  before  he  turned  him 
out  to  face  the  world.  It  was  first-rate  of  him  to  do 
it.  The  Rat  felt  that  when  he  was  turned  out,  after 
he  had  had  the  coffee,  he  should  want  to  hang  about 
the  neighborhood  just  on  the  chance  of  seeing  him 
pass  by  sometimes.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  The  parish  officials  would  by  this  time 
have  taken  his  dead  father,  and  he  would  not  see  him 
again.  He  did  not  want  to  see  him  again.  He  had 
never  seemed  like  a  father.  They  had  never  cared 
anything  for  each  other.  He  had  only  been  a  wretched 
outcast  whose  best  hours  had  been  when  he  had  drunk 
too  much  to  be  violent  and  brutal.  Perhaps,  The  Rat 
thought,  he  would  be  driven  to  going  about  on  his 
platform  on  the  pavements  and  begging,  as  his  father 
had  tried  to  force  him  to  do.  Could  he  sell  news- 
124 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

papers?     What   could   a   crippled  lad  do  unless   he 
begged  or  sold  papers? 

Lazarus  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  passage.  The 
Rat  held  back  a  little. 

"  Perhaps  they  'd  rather  not  eat  their  breakfast  with 
me,"  he  hesitated.  "  I  'm  not  —  I  'm  not  the  kind  they 
are.  I  could  swallow  the  coffee  out  here  and  carry  the 
bread  away  with  me.  And  you  could  thank  him  for 
me.     I  'd  want  him  to  know  I  thanked  him." 

Lazarus  also  had  a  steady  eye.  The  Rat  realized 
that  he  was  looking  him  over  as  if  he  were  summing 
him  up. 

"  You  may  not  be  the  kind  they  are,  but  you  may  be 
of  a  kind  the  Master  sees  good  in.  If  he  did  not  see 
something,  he  would  not  ask  you  to  sit  at  his  table. 
You  are  to  come  with  me." 

The  Squad  had  seen  good  in  The  Rat,  but  no  one 
else  had.  Policemen  had  moved  him  on  whenever 
they  set  eyes  on  him,  the  wretched  women  of  the  slums 
had  regarded  him  as  they  regarded  his  darting,  thieving 
namesake ;  loafing  or  busy  men  had  seen  in  him  a  young 
nuisance  to  be  kicked  or  pushed  out  of  the  way.  The 
Squad  had  not  called  "  good  "  what  they  saw  in  him. 
They  would  have  yelled  with  laughter  if  they  had 
heard  any  one  else  call  it  so.  "  Goodness  "  was  not 
considered  an  attraction  in  their  world. 

The  Rat  grinned  a  little  and  wondered  what  was 
meant,  as  he  followed  Lazarus  into  the  back  sitting- 
room. 

125 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

It  was  as  dingy  and  gloomy  as  it  had  looked  the  night 
before,  but  by  the  daylight  The  Rat  saw  how  rigidly 
neat  it  was,  how  well  swept  and  free  from  any  speck 
of  dust,  how  the  poor  windows  had  been  cleaned  and 
polished,  and  how  everything  was  set  in  order.  The 
coarse  linen  cloth  on  the  table  was  fresh  and  spotless, 
so  was  the  cheap  crockery,  the  spoons  shone  with 
brightness. 

Loristan  was  standing  on  the  hearth  and  Marco  was 
near  him.  They  were  waiting  for  their  vagabond 
guest  as  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman. 

The  Rat  hesitated  and  shuffled  at  the  door  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to  stand  as 
straight  as  he  could  and  salute.  When  he  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  Loristan,  he  felt  as  if  he  ought 
to  do  something,  but  he  did  not  know  what. 

Loristan's  recognition  of  his  gesture  and  his  expres- 
sion as  he  moved  forward  lifted  from  The  Rat's  shoul- 
ders a  load  which  he  himself  had  not  known  lay  there. 
Somehow  he  felt  as  if  something  new  had  happened 
to  him,  as  if  he  were  not  mere  "  vermin,"  after  all,  as 
if  he  need  not  be  on  the  defensive  —  even  as  if  he  need 
not  feel  so  much  in  the  dark,  and  like  a  thing  there  was 
no  place  in  the  world  for.  The  mere  straight  and 
far-seeing  look  of  this  man's  eyes  seemed  to  make  a 
place  somewhere  for  what  he  looked  at.  And  yet  what 
he  said  was  quite  simple. 

"  This  is  well,"  he  said.  "  You  have  rested.  We 
will  have  some  food,  and  then  we  will  talk  together," 
126 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

He  made  a  slight  gesture  in  the  direction  of  the  chair 
at  the  right  hand  of  his  own  place. 

The  Rat  hesitated  again.  What  a  swell  he  was! 
With  that  wave  of  the  hand  he  made  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  a  fellow  like  himself,  and  he  was  doing  you  some 
honor. 

"  I  'm  not  — "  The  Rat  broke  off  and  jerked  his 
head  toward  Marco.  "  He  knows  — "  he  ended,  "  I  've 
never  sat  at  a  table  like  this  before." 

"  There  is  not  much  on  it."  Loristan  made  the 
slight  gesture  toward  the  right-hand  seat  again  and 
smiled.     "  Let  us  sit  down." 

The  Rat  obeyed  him  and  the  meal  began.  There 
were  only  bread  and  coffee  and  a  little  butter  before 
them.  But  Lazarus  presented  the  cups  and  plates  on  a 
small  japanned  tray  as  if  it  were  a  golden  salver. 
When  he  was  not  serving,  he  stood  upright  behind  his 
master's  chair,  as  though  he  wore  royal  livery  of  scarlet 
and  gold.  To  the  boy  who  had  gnawed  a  bone  or 
munched  a  crust  wheresoever  he  found  them,  and  with 
no  thought  but  of  the  appeasing  of  his  own  wolfish 
hunger,  to  watch  the  two  with  whom  he  sat  eat  their 
simple  food  was  a  new  thing.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  every-day  decencies  of  civilized  people.  The  Rat 
liked  to  look  at  them,  and  he  found  himself  trying  to 
hold  his  cup  as  Loristan  did,  and  to  sit  and  move  as 
Marco  was  sitting  and  moving  —  taking  his  bread  or 
butter,  when  it  was  held  at  his  side  by  Lazarus,  as  if 
it  were  a  simple  thing  to  be  waited  upon.  Marco  had 
127 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

had  things  handed  to  him  all  his  life,  and  it  did  not 
make  him  feel  awkward.  The  Rat  knew  that  his  own 
father  had  once  lived  like  this.  He  himself  would 
have  been  at  ease  if  chance  had  treated  him  fairly.  It 
made  him  scowl  to  think  of  it. 

But  in  a  few  minutes  Loristan  began  to  talk  about 
the  copy  of  the  map  of  Samavia.  Then  The  Rat  for- 
got everything  else  and  was  ill  at  ease  no  more.  He 
did  not  know  that  Loristan  was  leading  him  on  to  ex- 
plain his  theories  about  the  country  and  the  people  and 
the  war.  He  found  himself  telling  all  that  he  had. 
read,  or  overheard,  or  thought  as  he  lay  awake  in  his 
garret.  He  had  thought  out  a  great  many  things  in  a 
way  not  at  all  like  a  boy's.  His  strangely  concentrated 
and  over-mature  mind  had  been  full  of  military 
schemes  which  Loristan  listened  to  with  curiosity  and 
also  with  amazement.  He  had  become  extraordinarily 
clever  in  one  direction  because  he  had  fixed  all  his  men- 
tal powers  on  one  thing.  It  seemed  scarcely  natural 
that  an  untaught  vagabond  lad  should  know  so  much 
and  reason  so  clearly.  It  was  at  least  extraordinarily 
interesting.  There  had  been  no  skirmish,  no  attack, 
no  battle  which  he  had  not  led  and  fought  in  his  own 
imagination,  and  he  had  made  scores  of  rough  queer 
plans  of  all  that  had  been  or  should  have  been  done. 
Lazarus  listened  as  attentively  as  his  master,  and  once 
Marco  saw  him  exchange  a  startled,  rapid  glance  with 
Loristan.  It  was  at  a  moment  when  The  Rat  was 
sketching  with  his  finger  on  the  cloth  an  attack  which 
128 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

ought  to  have  been  made  but  was  not.  And  Marco 
knew  at  once  that  the  quickly  exchanged  look  meant 
"  He  is  right!  If  it  had  been  done,  there  would  have 
been  victory  instead  of  disaster !  " 

It  was  a  wonderful  meal,  though  it  was  only  of 
bread  and  coffee.  The  Rat  knew  he  should  never  be 
able  to  forget  it. 

Afterward,  Loristan  told  him  of  what  he  had  done 
the  night  before.  He  had  seen  the  parish  authorities 
and  all  had  been  done  which  a  city  government  provides 
in  the  case  of  a  pauper's  death.  His  father  would  be 
buried  in  the  usual  manner.  "  We  will  follow  him," 
Loristan  said  in  the  end.  "  You  and  I  and  Marco  and 
Lazarus." 

The  Rat's  mouth  fell  open. 

"  You  —  and  Marco  —  and  Lazarus !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, staring.  "  And  me !  Why  should  any  of  us 
go  ?  I  don't  want  to.  He  would  n't  have  followed  me 
if  I  'd  been  the  one." 

Loristan  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"When  a  life  has  counted  for  nothing,  the  end  of 
it  is  a  lonely  thing,"  he  said  at  last.  "If  it  has  for- 
gotten all  respect  for  itself,  pity  is  all  that  one  has  left 
to  give.  One  would  like  to  give  something  to  anything 
so  lonely."  He  said  the  last  brief  sentence  after  a 
pause. 

"  Let  us  go,"  Marco  said  suddenly ;  and  he  caught 
The  Rat's  hand. 

The  Rat's  own  movement  was  sudden.     He  slipped 
129 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

from  his  crutches  to  a  chair,  and  sat  and  gazed  at  the 
worn  carpet  as  if  he  were  not  looking  at  it  at  all,  but 
at  something  a  long  way  off.  After  a  while  he  looked 
up  at  Loristan. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  of,  all  at  once?  "  he 
said  in  a  shaky  voice.  "  I  thought  of  that  '  Lost 
Prince  '  one.  He  only  lived  once.  Perhaps  he  did  n't 
live  a  long  time.  Nobody  knows.  But  it 's  five  hun- 
dred years  ago,  and,  just  because  he  was  the  kind  he 
was,  every  one  that  remembers  him  thinks  of  some- 
thing fine.  It 's  queer,  but  it  does  you  good  just  to 
hear  his  name.  And  if  he  has  been  training  kings  for 
Samavia  all  these  centuries  —  they  may  have  been  poor 
and  nobody  may  have  known  about  them,  but  they  've 
been  kings.  That 's  what  he  did  —  just  by  being  alive 
a  few  years.     When  I  think  of  him  and  then  think  of 

—  the  other  —  there  's  such  an  awful  difference  that 

—  yes  —  I  'm  sorry.  For  the  first  time.  I  'm  his  son 
.and  I  can't  care  about  him ;  but  he  's  too  lonely  —  I 
want  to  go." 

So  it  was  that  when  the  forlorn  derelict  was  carried 
to  the  graveyard  where  nameless  burdens  on  the  city 
were  given  to  the  earth,  a  curious  funeral  procession 
followed  him.  There  were  two  tall  and  soldierly  look- 
ing men  and  two  boys,  one  of  whom  walked  on 
crutches,  and  behind  them  were  ten  other  boys  who 
walked  two  by  two.  These  ten  were  a  queer,  ragged 
lot;  but  they  had  respectfully  sober  faces,  held  their 
130 


THE  RAT  — AND  SAMAVIA 

heads  and  their  shoulders  well,  and  walked  with  a  re- 
markably regular  marching  step. 

It  was  the  Squad ;  but  they  had  left  their  "  rifles  " 
at  home. 


131 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  COME   WITH   ME  " 

WHEN  they  came  back  from  the  graveyard,  The 
Rat  was  silent  all  the  way.  He  was  thinking 
of  what  had  happened  and  of  what  lay  before  him. 
He  was,  in  fact,  thinking  chiefly  that  nothing  lay  be- 
fore him  —  nothing.  The  certainty  of  that  gave  his 
sharp,  lined  face  new  lines  and  sharpness  which  made  it 
look  pinched  and  hard.  He  had  had  nothing  before 
but  a  corner  in  a  bare  garret  in  which  he  could  find  little 
more  than  a  leaking  roof  over  his  head  —  when  he  was 
not  turned  out  into  the  street.  But,  if  policemen  asked 
him  where  he  lived,  he  could  say  he  lived  in  Bone  Court 
with  his  father.     Now  he  could  n't  say  it. 

He  got  along  very  well  on  his  crutches,  but  he  was 
rather  tired  when  they  reached  the  turn  in  the  street 
which  led  in  the  direction  of  his  old  haunts.  At  any 
rate,  they  were  haunts  he  knew,  and  he  belonged  to 
them  more  than  he  belonged  elsewhere.  The  Squad 
stopped  at  this  particular  corner  because  it  led  to  such 
homes  as  they  possessed.  They  stopped  in  a  body  and 
looked  at  The  Rat,  and  The  Rat  stopped  also.  He 
swung  himself  to  Loristan's  side,  touching  his  hand  to 
his  forehead. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Line  and  salute,  you 
132 


"COME  WITH  ME" 

chaps !  "  And  the  Squad  stood  in  line  and  raised  their 
hands  also.  "  Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you,  Marco. 
Good-by." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  Loristan  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  The  Rat  answered,  biting  his 
lips. 

He  and  Loristan  looked  at  each  other  a  few  mo- 
ments in  silence.  Both  of  them  were  thinking  very 
hard.  In  The  Rat's  eyes  there  was  a  kind  of  desperate 
adoration.  He  did  not  know  what  he  should  do  when 
this  man  turned  and  walked  away  from  him.  It  would 
be  as  if  the  sun  itself  had  dropped  out  of  the  heavens 
—  and  The  Rat  had  not  thought  of  what  the  sun  meant 
before. 

But  Loristan  did  not  turn  and  walk  away.  He 
looked  deep  into  the  lad's  eyes  as  if  he  were  searching 
to  find  some  certainty.  Then  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  You  know  how  poor  I  am." 

"I  — I  don't  care!"  said  The  Rat.  "You  — 
you  're  like  a  king  to  me.  I  'd  stand  up  and  be  shot  to 
bits  if  you  told  me  to  do  it." 

"  I  am  so  poor  that  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  give  you 
enough  dry  bread  to  eat  —  always.  Marco  and  Laz- 
arus and  I  are  often  hungry.  Sometimes  you  might 
have  nothing  to  sleep  on  but  the  floor.  But  I  can  find 
a  place  for  you  if  I  take  you  with  me,"  said  Loristan. 
"  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  by  a  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  The  Rat.  "  It 's  what  I  've 
never  had  before  —  sir." 

133 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

What  he  knew  was  that  it  meant  some  bit  of  space, 
out  of  all  the  world,  where  he  would  have  a  sort  of 
right  to  stand,  howsoever  poor  and  bare  it  might  be. 

"  I  'm  not  used  to  beds  or  to  food  enough,"  he  said. 
But  he  did  not  dare  to  insist  too  much  on  that  "  place." 
It  seemed  too  great  a  thing  to  be  true. 

Loristan  took  his  arm. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "We  won't  part.  I 
believe  you  are  to  be  trusted." 

The  Rat  turned  quite  white  in  a  sort  of  anguish  of 
joy.  He  had  never  cared  for  any  one  in  his  life.  He 
had  been  a  sort  of  young  Cain,  his  hand  against  every 
man  and  every  man's  hand  against  him.  And  during 
the  last  twelve  hours  he  had  plunged  into  a  tumultuous 
ocean  of  boyish  hero-worship.  This  man  seemed  like 
a  sort  of  god  to  him.  What  he  had  said  and  done  the 
day  before,  in  what  had  been  really  The  Rat's  hour  of 
extremity,  after  that  appalling  night  —  the  way  he  had 
looked  into  his  face  and  understood  it  all,  the  talk  at 
the  table  when  he  had  listened  to  him  seriously,  com- 
prehending and  actually  respecting  his  plans  and  rough 
maps;  his  silent  companionship  as  they  followed  the 
pauper  hearse  together  —  these  things  were  enough,  to 
make  the  lad  longingly  ready  to  be  any  sort  of  servant 
or  slave  to  him,  if  he  might  see  and  be  spoken  to  by 
him  even  once  or  twice  a  day. 

The  Squad  wore  a  look  of  dismay  for  a  moment, 
and  Loristan  saw  it. 

"lam  going  to  take  your  captain  with  me,"  he  said. 
134 


"  COME  WITH  ME  " 

"  But  he  will  come  back  to  Barracks.     So  will  Marco."' 

"Will  yer  go  on  with  the  game?"  asked  Cad,  as' 
eager  spokesman.  "We  want  to  go  on  being  the 
'  Secret  Party.'  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  go  on,"  The  Rat  answered.  "  I  won't 
give  it  up.     There  's  a  lot  in  the  papers  to-day." 

So  they  were  pacified  and  went  on  their  way,  and 
Loristan  and  Lazarus  and  Marco  and  The  Rat  went 
on  theirs  also. 

"  Queer  thing  is,"  The  Rat  thought  as  they  walked 
together,  "  I  'm  a  bit  afraid  to  speak  to  him  unless  he 
speaks  to  me  first.  Never  felt  that  way  before  with 
any  one." 

He  had  jeered  at  policemen  and  had  impudently 
chaffed  "  swells,"  but  he  felt  a  sort  of  secret  awe  of 
this  man,  and  actually  liked  the  feeling. 

"  It 's  as  if  I  was  a  private  and  he  was  commander- 
in-chief,"  he  thought.     "  That 's  it." 

Loristan  talked  to  him  as  they  went.  He  was  simple 
enough  in  his  statements  of  the  situation.  There  was 
an  old  sofa  in  Marco's  bedroom.  It  was  narrow  and 
hard,  as  Marco's  bed  itself  was,  but  The  Rat  could 
sleep  upon  it.  They  would  share  what  food  they  had. 
There  were  newspapers  and  magazines  to  be  read. 
There  were  papers  and  pencils  to  draw  new  maps  and 
plans  of  battles.  There  was  even  an  old  map  of  Sa- 
mavia  of  Marco's  which  the  two  boys  could  study  to- 
gether as  an  aid  to  their  game.  The  Rat's  eyes  began 
to  have  points  of  fire  in  them. 
135 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  If  I  could  see  the  papers  every  morning,  I  could 
fight  the  battles  on  paper  by  night,"  he  said,  quite  pant- 
ing at  the  incredible  vision  of  splendor.  Were  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth  going  to  be  given  to  him?  Was 
he  going  to  sleep  without  a  drunken  father  near  him? 
Was  he  going  to  have  a  chance  to  wash  himself  and  to 
sit  at  a  table  and  hear  people  say  "  Thank  you,"  and 
"  I  beg  pardon,"  as  if  they  were  using  the  most 
ordinary  fashion  of  speech?  His  own  father,  before 
he  had  sunk  into  the  depths,  had  lived  and  spoken  in 
this  way. 

"  When  I  have  time,  we  will  see  who  can  draw  up 
the  best  plans,"  Loristan  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  '11  look  at  mine  then  — 
when  you  have  time  ?  "  asked  The  Rat,  hesitatingly. 
"  I  was  n't  expecting  that." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Loristan.  "  I  '11  look  at  them,  and 
we  '11  talk  them  over." 

As  they  went  on,  he  told  him  that  he  and  Marco 
could  do  many  things  together.  They  could  go  to 
museums  and  galleries,  and  Marco  could  show  him 
what  he  himself  was  familiar  with. 

"  My  father  said  you  would  n't  let  him  come  back 
to  Barracks  when  you  found  out  about  it,"  The  Rat 
said,  hesitating  again  and  growing  hot  because  he  re- 
membered so  many  ugly  past  days.  "  But  —  but  I 
swear  I  won't  do  him  any  harm,  sir.     I  won't  I " 

"  When  I  said  I  believed  you  could  be  trusted,  I 
meant  several  things,"  Loristan  answered  him.  "  That 
136 


"  COME  WITH  ME  " 

was  one  of  them.  You  're  a  new  recruit.  You  and 
Marco  are  both  under  a  commanding  officer."  He  said 
the  words  because  he  knew  they  would  elate  him  and 
stir  his  blood. 


*Z7 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  ONLY   TWO   BOYS  " 

THE  words  did  elate  him,  and  his  blood  was 
stirred  by  them  every  time  they  returned  to  his 
mind.  He  remembered  them  through  the  days  and 
nights  that  followed.  He  sometimes,  indeed,  awak- 
ened from  his  deep  sleep  on  the  hard  and  narrow  sofa 
in  Marco's  room,  and  found  that  he  was  saying  them 
half  aloud  to  himself.  The  hardness  of  the  sofa  did 
not  prevent  his  resting  as  he  had  never  rested  before 
in  his  life.  By  contrast  with  the  past  he  had  known, 
this  poor  existence  was  comfort  which  verged  on  lux- 
ury. He  got  into  the  battered  tin  bath  every  morning, 
he  sat  at  the  clean  table,  and  could  look  at  Loristan  and 
speak  to  him  and  hear  his  voice.  His  chief  trouble 
was  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  eyes  off  him,  and 
he  was  a  little  afraid  he  might  be  annoyed.  But  he 
could  not  bear  to  lose  a  look  or  a  movement. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  day,  he  found  his  way,  at 
some  trouble,  to  Lazarus's  small  back  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house. 

"  Will  you  let  me  come  in  and  talk  a  bit?  "  he  said. 

When  he  went  in,  he  was  obliged  to  sit  on  the  top 
138 


"ONLY  TWO  BOYS" 

of  Lazarus' s  wooden  box  because  there  was  nothing 
else  for  him. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  plunged  into  his  talk  at 
once,  "  do  you  think  he  minds  me  looking  at  him  so 
much?  I  can't  help  it  —  but  if  he  hates  it  —  well  — 
I  '11  try  and  keep  my  eyes  on  the  table." 

"  The  master  is  used  to  being  looked  at,"  Lazarus 
made  answer.  "  But  it  would  be  well  to  ask  himself. 
He  likes  open  speech." 

"  I  want  to  find  out  everything  he  likes  and  every- 
thing he  doesn't  like,"  The  Rat  said.  "I  want  — 
is  n't  there  anything  —  anything  you  'd  let  me  do  for 
him?  It  wouldn't  matter  what  it  was.  And  he 
needn't  know  you  are  not  doing  it.  I  know  you 
wouldn't  be  willing  to  give  up  anything  particular. 
But  you  wait  on  him  night  and  day.  Could  n't  you 
give  up  something  to  me?  " 

Lazarus  pierced  him  with  keen  eyes.  He  did  not 
answer  for  several  seconds. 

"  Now  and  then,"  he  said  gruffly  at  last,  "  I  '11  let 
you  brush  his  boots.  But  not  every  day  —  perhaps 
once  a  week." 

"  When  will  you  let  me  have  my  first  turn  ?  "  The 
Rat  asked. 

Lazarus  reflected.  His  shaggy  eyebrows  drew 
themselves  down  over  his  eyes  as  if  this  were  a  ques- 
tion of  state. 

"  Next    Saturday,"    he    conceded.     "  Not    before. 
I  '11  tell  him  when  you  brush  them." 
139 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"You  need  n't,"  said  The  Rat.  "  It 's  not  that  I 
want  him  to  know.  I  want  to  know  myself  that  I  'm 
doing  something  for  him.  I  '11  find  out  things  that  I 
can  do  without  interfering  with  you.  I  '11  think  them 
out." 

"  Anything  any  one  else  did  for  him  would  be  in- 
terfering with  me,"  said  Lazarus. 

It  was  The  Rat's  turn  to  reflect  now,,  and  his  face 
twisted  itself  into  new  lines  and  wrinkles. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  before  I  do  anything,"  he  said,  after 
he  had  thought  it  over.     "  You  served  him  first." 

"  I  have  served  him  ever  since  he  was  born,"  said 
Lazarus. 

"  He  's  —  he 's  yours,"  said  The  Rat,  still  thinking 
deeply. 

"  I  am  his,"  was  Lazarus's  stern  answer.  "  I  am 
his  —  and  the  young  master's." 

"  That 's  it,"  The  Rat  said.  Then  a  squeak  of  a 
half-laugh  broke  from  him.  "  I  've  never  been  any- 
body's," he  added. 

His  sharp  eyes  caught  a  passing  look  on  Lazarus's 
face.  Such  a  queer,  disturbed,  sudden  look.  Could 
he  be  rather  sorry  for  him?  Perhaps  the  look  meant 
something  like  that. 

"If  you  stay  near  him  long  enough  —  and  it  need  n't 
be  long  —  you  will  be  his  too.     Everybody  is." 

The  Rat  sat  up  as  straight  as  he  could.  "  When  it 
comes  to  that,"  he  blurted  out,  "  I  'm  his  now,  in  my 
way.  I  was  his  two  minutes  after  he  looked  at  me  with 
140 


"ONLY  TWO  BOYS" 

his  queer,  handsome  eyes.  They  're  queer  because 
they  get  you,  and  you  want  to  follow  him.  I  'm  going 
to  follow." 

That  night  Lazarus  recounted  to  his  master  the  story 
of  the  scene.  He  simply  repeated  word  for  word  what 
had  been  said,  and  Loristan  listened  gravely. 

"  We  have  not  had  time  to  learn  much  of  him 
yet,"  he  commented.  "  But  that  is  a  faithful  soul,  I 
think." 

A  few  days  later,  Marco  missed  The  Rat  soon  after 
their  breakfast  hour.  He  had  gone  out  without  saying 
anything  to  the  household.  He  did  not  return  for 
several  hours,  and  when  he  came  back  he  looked  tired. 
In  the  afternoon  he  fell  asleep  on  his  sofa  in  Marco's 
room  and  slept  heavily.  No  one  asked  him  any  ques- 
tions as  he  volunteered  no  explanation.  The  next  day, 
he  went  out  again  in  the  same  mysterious  manner,  and 
the  next  and  the  next.  For  an  entire  week  he  went 
out  and  returned  with  the  tired  look ;  but  he  did  not 
explain  until  one  morning,  as  he  lay  on  his  sofa  before 
getting  up,  he  said  to  Marco : 

"  I  'm  practising  walking  with  my  crutches.  I  don't 
want  to  go  about  like  a  rat  any  more.  I  mean  to  be 
as  near  like  other  people  as  I  can.  I  walk  farther 
every  morning.  I  began  with  two  miles.  If  I  prac- 
tise every  day,  my  crutches  will  be  like  legs." 

"  Shall  I  walk  with  you  ?  "  asked  Marco. 

"  Would  n't  you  mind  walking  with  a  cripple?  " 

"  Don't  call  yourself  that,"  said  Marco.  "  We  can 
141 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

talk  together,  and  try  to  remember  everything  we  see 
as  we  go  along." 

"  I  want  to  learn  to  remember  things.  I  'd  like  to 
train  myself  in  that  way  too,"  The  Rat  answered. 
"  I  'd  give  anything  to  know  some  of  the  things  your 
father  taught  you.  I  've  got  a  good  memory.  I  re- 
member a  lot  of  things  I  don't  want  to  remember. 
Will  you  go  this  morning?  " 

That  morning  they  went,  and  Loristan  was  told  the 
reason  for  their  walk.  But  though  he  knew  one  rea- 
son, he  did  not  know  all  about  it.  When  The  Rat  was 
allowed  his  "  turn  "  of  the  boot-brushing,  he  told  more 
to  Lazarus. 

"  What  I  want  to  do,"  he  said,  "  is  not  only  to  walk 
as  fast  as  other  people  do,  but  faster.  Acrobats  train 
themselves  to  do  anything.  It 's  training  that  does  it. 
There  might  come  a  time  when  he  might  need  some 
one  to  go  on  an  errand  quickly,  and  I  'm  going  to  be 
ready.  I  'm  going  to  train  myself  until  he  need  n't 
think  of  me  as  if  I  were  only  a  cripple  who  can't  do 
things  and  has  to  be  taken  care  of.  I  want  him  to 
know  that  I  'm  really  as  strong  as  Marco,  and  where 
Marco  can  go  I  can  go." 

"  He  "  was  what  he  always  said,  and  Lazarus  al- 
ways understood  without  explanation. 

"  '  The  Master '  is  your  name  for  him,"  he  had  ex- 
plained at  the  beginning.  "  And  I  can't  call  him  just 
'  Mister  '  Loristan.  It  sounds  like  cheek.  If  he  was 
called  '  General '  or  *  Colonel '  I  could  stand  it  — 
142 


"  ONLY  TWO  BOYS  " 

though  it  would  n't  be  quite  right.     Some  day  I  shall 
find  a  name.     When  I  speak  to  him,  I  say  '  Sir.'  " 

The  walks  were  taken  every  day,  and  each  day  were 
longer.  Marco  found  himself  silently  watching  The 
Rat  with  amazement  at  his  determination  and  endur- 
ance. He  knew  that  he  must  not  speak  of  what  he 
could  not  fail  to  see  as  they  walked.  He  must  not  tell 
him  that  he  looked  tired  and  pale  and  sometimes  desper- 
ately fatigued.  He  had  inherited  from  his  father  the 
tact  which  sees  what  people  do  not  wish  to  be  re- 
minded of.  He  knew  that  for  some  reason  of  his 
own  The  Rat  had  determined  to  do  this  thing  at  any 
cost  to  himself.  Sometimes  his  face  grew  white  and 
worn  and  he  breathed  hard,  but  he  never  rested  more 
than  a  few  minutes,  and  never  turned  back  or  short- 
ened a  walk  they  had  planned. 

"  Tell  me  something  about  Samavia,  something 
to  remember,"  he  would  say,  when  he  looked  his  worst. 
"  When  I  begin  to  try  to  remember,  I  forget  —  other 
things." 

So,  as  they  went  on  their  way,  they  talked,  and  The 
Rat  committed  things  to  memory.  He  was  quick  at 
it,  and  grew  quicker  every  day.  They  invented  a  game 
of  remembering  faces  they  passed.  Both  would  learn 
them  by  heart,  and  on  their  return  home  Marco  would 
draw  them.  They  went  to  the  museums  and  galleries 
and  learned  things  there,  making  from  memory  lists 
and  descriptions  which  at  night  they  showed  to  Loris- 
tan,  when  he  was  not  too  busy  to  talk  to  them. 
143 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

As  the  days  passed,  Marco  saw  that  The  Rat  was 
gaining  strength.  This  exhilarated  him  greatly. 
They  often  went  to  Hampstead  Heath  and  walked  in 
the  wind  and  sun.  There  The  Rat  would  go  through 
curious  exercises  which  he  believed  would  develop  his 
muscles.  He  began  to  look  less  tired  during  and  after 
his  journey.  There  were  even  fewer  wrinkles  on  his 
face,  and  his  sharp  eyes  looked  less  fierce.  The  talks 
between  the  two  boys  were  long  and  curious.  Marco 
soon  realized  that  The  Rat  wanted  to  learn  —  learn  — 
learn. 

"  Your  father  can  talk  to  you  almost  as  if  you  were 
twenty  years  old,"  he  said  once.  "  He  knows  you  can 
understand  what  he  's  saying.  If  he  were  to  talk  to 
me,  he  'd  always  have  to  remember  that  I  was  only  a 
rat  that  had  lived  in  gutters  and  seen  nothing  else." 

They  were  talking  in  their  room,  as  they  nearly  al- 
ways did  after  they  went  to  bed  and  the  street  lamp 
shone  in  and  lighted  their  bare  little  room.  They  often 
sat  up  clasping  their  knees,  Marco  on  his  poor  bed, 
The  Rat  on  his  hard  sofa,  but  neither  of  them  conscious 
either  of  the  poorness  or  hardness,  because  to  each  one 
the  long  unknown  sense  of  companionship  was  such  a 
satisfying  thing.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  talked 
intimately  to  another  boy,  and  now  they  were  together 
day  and  night.  They  revealed  their  thoughts  to  each 
other;  they  told  each  other  things  it  had  never  before 
occurred  to  either  to  think  of  telling  any  one.  In  fact, 
they  found  out  about  themselves,  as  they  talked,  things 
144 


"  ONLY  TWO  BOYS  " 

they  had  not  quite  known  before.  Marco  had  gradually- 
discovered  that  the  admiration  The  Rat  had  for  his 
father  was  an  impassioned  and  curious  feeling  which 
possessed  him  entirely.  It  seemed  to  Marco  that  it 
was  beginning  to  be  like  a  sort  of  religion.  He  evi- 
dently thought  of  him  every  moment.  So  when  he 
spoke  of  Loristan's  knowing  him  to  be  only  a  rat  of  the 
gutter,  Marco  felt  he  himself  was  fortunate  in  remem- 
bering something  he  could  say. 

"  My  father  said  yesterday  that  you  had  a  big  brain 
and  a  strong  will,"  he  answered  from  his  bed.  "  He 
said  that  you  had  a  wonderful  memory  which  only 
needed  exercising.  He  said  it  after  he  looked  over 
the  list  you  made  of  the  things  you  had  seen  in  the 
Tower." 

The  Rat  shuffled  on  his  sofa  and  clasped  his  knees 
tighter. 

"Did  he?     Did  he?  "  he  said. 

He  rested  his  chin  upon  his  knees  for  a  few  minutes 
and  stared  straight  before  him.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
bed. 

"  Marco,"  he  said,  in  a  rather  hoarse  voice,  a  queer 
voice ;  "  are  you  jealous  ?  " 

"  Jealous,"  said  Marco;  "  why?  " 

"I  mean,  have  you  ever  been  jealous?  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  like  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,"  answered  Marco,  staring  a 
little. 

"  Are  you  ever  jealous  of  Lazarus  because  he  's  al- 
145 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ways  with  your  father  —  because  he 's  with  him 
oftener  than  you  are  —  and  knows  about  his  work  — 
and  can  do  things  for  him  you  can't  ?  I  mean,  are  you 
jealous  of  —  your  father?" 

Marco  loosed  his  arms  from  his  knees  and  lay  down 
flat  on  his  pillow. 

"  No,  I  'm  not.  The  more  people  love  and  serve 
him,  the  better,"  he  said.  "  The  only  thing  I  care  for 
is  —  is  him.  I  just  care  for  him.  Lazarus  does  too. 
Don't  you?" 

The  Rat  was  greatly  excited  internally.  He  had 
been  thinking  of  this  thing  a  great  deal.  The 
thought  had  sometimes  terrified  him.  He  might  as 
well  have  it  out  now  if  he  could.  If  he  could  get  at 
the  truth,  everything  would  be  easier?  But  would 
Marco  really  tell  him? 

"  Don't  you  mind?  "  he  said,  still  hoarse  and  eager 
— "  don't  you  mind  how  much  /  care  for  him  ?  Could 
it  ever  make  you  feel  savage?  Could  it  ever  set  you 
thinking  I  was  nothing  but  —  what  I  am  —  and  that 
it  was  cheek  of  me  to  push  myself  in  and  fasten  on  to  a 
gentleman  who  only  took  me  up  for  charity  ?  Here  's 
the  living  truth,"  he  ended  in  an  outburst;  "  if  I  were 
you  and  you  were  me,  that 's  what  I  should  be  think- 
ing. I  know  it  is.  I  could  n't  help  it.  I  should  see 
every  low  thing  there  was  in  you,  in  your  manners  and 
your  voice  and  your  looks.  I  should  see  nothing  but 
the  contrast  between  you  and  me  and  between  you  and 
146 


"  ONLY  TWO  BOYS  " 

him.  I  should  be  so  jealous  that  I  should  just  rage.  I 
should  hate  you  —  and  I  should  despise  you !  " 

He  had  wrought  himself  up  to  such  a  passion  of 
feeling  that  he  set  Marco  thinking  that  what  he  was 
hearing  meant  strange  and  strong  emotions  such  as  he 
himself  had  never  experienced.  The  Rat  had  been 
thinking  over  all  this  in  secret  for  some  time,  it  was 
evident.  Marco  lay  still  a  few  minutes  and  thought  it 
over.  Then  he  found  something  to  say,  just  as  he  had 
found  something  before. 

"  You  might,  if  you  were  with  other  people  who 
thought  in  the  same  way,"  he  said,  "  and  if  you  had  n't 
found  out  that  it  is  such  a  mistake  to  think  in  that 
way,  that  it 's  even  stupid.  But,  you  see,  if  you  were 
I,  you  would  have  lived  with  my  father,  and  he  'd  have 
told  you  what  he  knows  —  what  he 's  been  finding 
out  all  his  life." 

"  What 's  he  found  out?  " 

"  Oh !  "  Marco  answered,  quite  casually,  "  just  that 
you  can't  set  savage  thoughts  loose  in  the  world,  any 
more  than  you  can  let  loose  savage  beasts  with  hydro- 
phobia. They  spread  a  sort  of  rabies,  and  they  always 
tear  and  worry  you  first  of  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  The  Rat  gasped  out. 

"  It 's  like  this,"  said  Marco,  lying  flat  and  cool  on 

his  hard  pillow  and  looking  at  the  reflection  of  the  street 

lamp  on  the  ceiling.     "That  day  I  turned  into  your 

Barracks,  without  knowing  that  you  'd  think  I  was 

147 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

spying,  it  made  you  feel  savage,  and  you  threw  the 
stone  at  me.  If  it  had  made  me  feel  savage  and  I  'd 
rushed  in  and  fought,  what  would  have  happened  to  all 
of  us?" 

The  Rat's  spirit  of  generalship  gave  the  answer. 

"  I  should  have  called  on  the  Squad  to  charge  with 
fixed  bayonets.  They  'd  have  half  killed  you.  You  're 
a  strong  chap,  and  you  'd  have  hurt  a  lot  of  them." 

A  note  of  terror  broke  into  his  voice.  "  What  a  fool 
I  should  have  been!  "  he  cried  out.  "  I  should  never 
have  come  here !  I  should  never  have  known  him ! " 
Even  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp  Marco  could  see 
him  begin  to  look  almost  ghastly. 

"  The  Squad  could  easily  have  half  killed  me," 
Marco  added.  "  They  could  have  quite  killed  me,  if 
they  had  wanted  to  do  it.  And  who  would  have  got 
any  good  out  of  it?  It  would  only  have  been  a  street- 
lads'  row  —  with  the  police  and  prison  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  But  because  you  'd  lived  with  him,"  The  Rat  pon- 
dered, "  you  walked  in  as  if  you  did  n't  mind,  and 
just  asked  why  we  did  it,  and  looked  like  a  stronger 
chap  than  any  of  us  —  and  different  —  different.  I 
wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  you,  you  were  so 
cool  and  steady.  I  know  now.  It  was  because  you 
were  like  him.  He  'd  taught  you.  He  's  like  a  wiz- 
ard." 

"  He  knows  things  that  wizards  think  they  know, 
but  he  knows  them  better,"  Marco  said.  "He  says 
they  're  not  queer  and  unnatural.  They  're  just  simple 
148 


"  ONLY  TWO  BOYS  " 

laws  of  nature.  You  have  to  be  either  on  one  side  or 
the  other,  like  an  army.  You  choose  your  side.  You 
either  build  up  or  you  tear  down.  You  either  keep  in 
the  light  where  you  can  see,  or  you  stand  in  the  dark 
and  fight  everything  that  comes  near  you,  because  you 
can't  see  and  you  think  it's  an  enemy.  No,  you 
wouldn't  have  been  jealous  if  you'd  been  I  and  I  'd 
been  you." 

"  And  you  're  not? "  The  Rat's  sharp  voice  was 
almost  hollow.     "  You  '11  swear  you  're  not?  " 

"  I  'm  not,"  said  Marco. 

The  Rat's  excitement  even  increased  a  shade  as  he 
poured  forth  his  confession. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  said.  "  I  've  been  afraid  every 
day  since  I  came  here.  I  '11  tell  you  straight  out.  It 
seemed  just  natural  that  you  and  Lazarus  wouldn't 
stand  me,  just  as  I  wouldn't  have  stood  you.  It 
seemed  just  natural  that  you  'd  work  together  to  throw 
me  out.  I  knew  how  I  should  have  worked  myself. 
Marco  —  I  said  I  'd  tell  you  straight  out  —  I  'm  jealous 
of  you.  I  'm  jealous  of  Lazarus.  It  makes  me  wild 
when  I  see  you  both  knowing  all  about  him,  and  fit 
and  ready  to  do  anything  he  wants  done.  I  'm  not 
ready  and  I  'm  not  fit." 

"  You  'd  do  anything  he  wanted  done,  whether  you 
were  fit  and  ready  or  not,"  said  Marco.  "  He  knows 
that." 

"  Does  he  ?     Do  you  think  he  does  ?  "  cried  The  Rat. 
"  I  wish  he  'd  try  me.     I  wish  he  would." 
149 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Marco  turned  over  on  his  bed  and  rose  up  on  his 
elbow  so  that  he  faced  The  Rat  on  his  sofa. 

"  Let  us  wait,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.     "  Let  us  wait." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  The  Rat  whispered  also. 

"For  what?" 

"  For  him  to  find  out  that  we  're  fit  to  be  tried. 
Don't  you  see  what  fools  we  should  be  if  we  spent  our 
time  in  being  jealous,  either  of  us.  We're  only  two 
boys.  Suppose  he  saw  we  were  only  two  silly  fools. 
When  you  are  jealous  of  me  or  of  Lazarus,  just  go  and 
sit  down  in  a  still  place  and  think  of  him.  Don't  think 
about  yourself  or  about  us.  He  's  so  quiet  that  to  think 
about  him  makes  you  quiet  yourself.  When  things  go 
wrong  or  when  I  'm  lonely,  he  's  taught  me  to  sit  down 
and  make  myself  think  of  things  I  like  —  pictures, 
books,  monuments,  splendid  places.  It  pushes  the 
other  things  out  and  sets  your  mind  going  properly. 
He  does  n't  know  I  nearly  always  think  of  him.  He  's 
the  best  thought  himself.  You  try  it.  You  're  not 
really  jealous.  You  only  think  you  are.  You  '11  find 
that  out  if  you  always  stop  yourself  in  time.  Any  one 
can  be  such  a  fool  if  he  lets  himself.  And  he  can  al- 
ways stop  it  if  he  makes  up  his  mind.  I  'm  not  jealous. 
You  must  let  that  thought  alone.  You  're  not  jealous 
yourself.     Kick  that  thought  into  the  street." 

The  Rat  caught  his  breath  and  threw  his  arms  up 
over  his  eyes.  "Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!"  he  said; 
"  if  I  'd  lived  near  him  always  as  you  have.  If  I  just 
had." 

150 


"  ONLY  TWO  BOYS  " 

"We're  both  living  near  him  now,"  said  Marco. 
"  And  here 's  something  to  think  of,"  leaning  more 
forward  on  his  elbow.  "  The  kings  who  were  being 
made  ready  for  Samavia  have  waited  all  these  years; 
we  can  make  ourselves  ready  and  wait  so  that,  if  just 
two  boys  are  wanted  to  do  something —  just 
two  boys  —  we  can  step  out  of  the  ranks  when  the 
call  comes  and  say  '  Here ! '  Now  let 's  lie  down  and 
think  of  it  until  we  go  to  sleep." 


151 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LORISTAN   ATTENDS   A   DRILL   OF   THE   SQUAD,    AND 
MARCO    MEETS  A  SAMAVIAN 

THE  Squad  was  not  forgotten.  It  found  that 
Loristan  himself  would  have  regarded  neglect  as 
a  breach  of  military  duty. 

"  You  must  remember  your  men,"  he  said,  two  or 
three  days  after  The  Rat  became  a  member  of  his 
household.  "  You  must  keep  up  their  drill.  Marco 
tells  me  it  was  very  smart.     Don't  let  them  get  slack." 

"  His  men !  "  The  Rat  felt  what  he  could  not  have 
put  into  words.  He  knew  he  had  worked,  and  that 
the  Squad  had  worked,  in  their  hidden  holes  and 
corners.  Only  hidden  holes  and  corners  had  been 
possible  for  them  because  they  had  existed  in 
spite  of  the  protest  of  their  world  and  the  vigilance 
of  its  policemen.  They  had  tried  many  refuges 
before  they  found  the  Barracks.  No  one  but 
resented  the  existence  of  a  troop  of  noisy  vagabonds. 
But  somehow  this  man  knew  that  there  had  evolved 
from  it  something  more  than  mere  noisy  play,  that  he, 
The  Rat,  had  meant  order  and  discipline. 

"  His  men !  "  It  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  had  the 
Victoria  Cross  fastened  on  his  coat.  He  had  brain 
152 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

enough  to  see  many  things,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  in 
this  way  that  Loristan  was  finding  him  his  "  place." 
He  knew  how. 

When  they  went  to  the  Barracks,  the  Squad  greeted 
them  with  a  tumultuous  welcome  which  expressed  a 
great  sense  of  relief.  Privately  the  members  had  been 
filled  with  fears  which  they  had  talked  over  together  in 
deep  gloom.  Marco's  father,  they  decided,  was  too 
big  a  swell  to  let  the  two  come  back  after  he  had  seen 
the  sort  the  Squad  was  made  up  of.  He  might  be 
poor  just  now,  toffs  sometimes  lost  their  money  for  a 
bit,  but  you  could  see  what  he  was,  and  fathers  like 
him  were  n't  going  to  let  their  sons  make  friends  with 
"  such  as  us."  He  'd  stop  the  drill  and  the  "  Secret 
Society  "  game.     That 's  what  he  'd  do ! 

But  The  Rat  came  swinging  in  on  his  secondhand 
crutches  looking  as  if  he  had  been  made  a  general,  and 
Marco  came  with  him ;  and  the  drill  the  Squad  was  put 
through  was  stricter  and  finer  than  any  drill  they  had 
ever  known. 

"I  wish  my  father  could  have  seen  that,"  Marco 
said  to  The  Rat. 

The  Rat  turned  red  and  white  and  then  red  again, 
but  he  said  not  a  single  word.  The  mere  thought  was 
like  a  flash  of  fire  passing  through  him.  But  no  fellow 
could  hope  for  a  thing  as  big  as  that.  The  Secret 
Party,  in  its  subterranean  cavern,  surrounded  by  its 
piled  arms,  sat  down  to  read  the  morning  paper. 

The  war  news  was  bad  to  read.  The  Maranovitch 
153 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

held  the  day  for  the  moment,  and  while  they  suffered 
and  wrought  cruelties  in  the  capital  city,  the  Iarovitch 
suffered  and  wrought  cruelties  in  the  country  outside. 
So  fierce  and  dark  was  the  record  that  Europe  stood 
aghast. 

The  Rat  folded  his  paper  when  he  had  finished,  and 
sat  biting  his  nails.  Having  done  this  for  a  few  min- 
utes, he  began  to  speak  in  his  dramatic  and  hollow 
Secret  Party  whisper. 

"  The  hour  has  come,"  he  said  to  his  followers. 
"  The  messengers  must  go  forth.  They  know  nothing 
of  what  they  go  for;  they  only  know  that  they  must 
obey.  If  they  were  caught  and  tortured,  they  could 
betray  nothing  because  they  know  nothing  but  that,  at 
certain  places,  they  must  utter  a  certain  word.  They 
carry  no  papers.  All  commands  they  must  learn  by 
heart.  When  the  sign  is  given,  the  Secret  Party  will 
know  what  to  do  —  where  to  meet  and  where  to  at- 
tack." 

He  drew  plans  of  the  battle  on  the  flagstones,  and  he 
sketched  an  imaginary  route  which  the  two  messengers 
were  to  follow.  But  his  knowledge  of  the  map  of  Eu- 
rope was  not  worth  much,  and  he  turned  to  Marco. 

"  You  know  more  about  geography  than  I  do.  You 
know  more  about  everything,"  he  said.  "  I  only  know 
Italy  is  at  the  bottom  and  Rusia  is  at  one  side  and  Eng- 
land 's  at  the  other.  How  would  the  Secret  Messen- 
gers go  to  Samavia?  Can  you  draw  the  countries 
they  'd  have  to  pass  through  ?  " 
154 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

Because  any  school-boy  who  knew  the  map  could 
have  done  the  same  thing,  Marco  drew  them.  He  also 
knew  the  stations  the  Secret  Two  would  arrive  at  and 
leave  by  when  they  entered  a  city,  the  streets  they 
would  walk  through  and  the  very  uniforms  they  would 
see;  but  of  these  things  he  said  nothing.  The  reality 
his  knowledge  gave  to  the  game  was,  however,  a  thrill- 
ing thing.  He  wished  he  could  have  been  free  to  ex- 
plain to  The  Rat  the  things  he  knew.  Together  they 
could  have  worked  out  so  many  details  of  travel  and 
possible  adventure  that  it  would  have  been  almost  as 
if  they  had  set  out  on  their  journey  in  fact 

As  it  was,  the  mere  sketching  of  the  route  fired  The 
Rat's  imagination.  He  forged  ahead  with  the  story  of 
adventure,  and  filled  it  with  such  mysterious  purport 
and  design  that  the  Squad  at  times  gasped  for  breath. 
In  his  glowing  version  the  Secret  Two  entered  cities 
by  midnight  and  sang  and  begged  at  palace  gates  where 
kings  driving  outward  paused  to  listen  and  were  given 
the  Sign. 

"  Though  it  would  not  always  be  kings,"  he  said. 
"  Sometimes  it  would  be  the  poorest  people.  Some- 
times they  might  seem  to  be  beggars  like  ourselves, 
when  they  were  only  Secret  Ones  disguised.  A  great 
lord  might  wear  poor  clothes  and  pretend  to  be  a  work- 
man, and  we  should  only  know  him  by  the  signs  we  had 
learned  by  heart.  When  we  were  sent  to  Samavia,  we 
should  be  obliged  to  creep  in  through  some  back  part 
of  the  country  where  no  fighting  was  being  done  and 
155 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

where  no  one  would  attack.  Their  generals  are  not 
clever  enough  to  protect  the  parts  which  are  joined  to 
friendly  countries,  and  they  have  not  forces  enough. 
Two  boys  could  find  a  way  in  if  they  thought  it  out." 

He  became  possessed  by  the  idea  of  thinking  it  out 
on  the  spot.  He  drew  his  rough  map  of  Samavia 
on  the  flagstones  with  his  chalk. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  to  Marco,  who,  with  the  elated 
and  thrilled  Squad,  bent  over  it  in  a  close  circle  of 
heads.  "  Beltrazo  is  here  and  Carnolitz  is  here — and 
here  is  Jiardasia.  Beltrazo  and  Jiardasia  are  friendly, 
though  they  don't  take  sides.  All  the  fighting  is  going 
on  in  the  country  about  Melzarr.  There  is  no  reason 
why  they  should  prevent  single  travelers  from  coming 
in  across  the  frontiers  of  friendly  neighbors.  They  're 
not  fighting  with  the  countries  outside,  they  are  fighting 
with  themselves."     He  paused  a  moment  and  thought. 

"  The  article  in  that  magazine  said  something  about 
a  huge  forest  on  the  eastern  frontier.  That 's  here. 
We  could  wander  into  a  forest  and  stay  there  until 
we  'd  planned  all  we  wanted  to  do.  Even  the  people 
who  had  seen  us  would  forget  about  us.  What  we 
have  to  do  is  to  make  people  feel  as  if  we  were  noth- 
ing —  nothing." 

They  were  in  the  very  midst  of  it,  crowded  together, 
leaning  over,  stretching  necks  and  breathing  quickly 
with  excitement,  when  Marco  lifted  his  head.  Some 
mysterious  impulse  made  him  do  it  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  There 's  my  father !  "  he  said. 
156 


LO.RISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

The  chalk  dropped,  everything  dropped,  even  Sama- 
via.  The  Rat  was  up  and  on  his  crutches  as  if  some 
magic  force  had  swung  him  there.  How  he  gave  the 
command,  or  if  he  gave  it  at  all,  not  even  he  himself 
knew.     But  the  Squad  stood  at  salute. 

Loristan  was  standing  at  the  opening  of  the  archway 
as  Marco  had  stood  that  first  day.  He  raised  his  right 
hand  in  return  salute  and  came  forward. 

"  I  was  passing  the  end  of  the  street  and  remembered 
the  Barracks  was  here,"  he  explained.  "  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  look  at  your  men,  Captain." 

He  smiled,  but  it  was  not  a  smile  which  made  his 
words  really  a  joke.  He  looked  down  at  the  chalk 
map  drawn  on  the  flagstones. 

"  You  know  that  map  well,"  he  said.  "  Even  I 
can  see  that  it  is  Samavia.  What  is  the  Secret  Party 
doing?  " 

"  The  messengers  are  trying  to  find  a  way  in,"  an- 
swered Marco. 

"  We  can  get  in  there,"  said  The  Rat,  pointing  with 
a  crutch.  "  There  's  a  forest  where  we  could  hide  and 
find  out  things." 

"  Reconnoiter,"  said  Loristan,  looking  down. 
"  Yes.  Two  stray  boys  could  be  very  safe  in  a  forest. 
It 's  a  good  game." 

That  he  should  be  there !     That  he  should,  in  his  own 

wonderful  way,  have  given  them  such  a  thing  as  this. 

That  he  should  have  cared  enough  even  to  look  up  the 

Barracks,  was  what  The  Rat  was  thinking.     A  batch 

157 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

of  ragamuffins  they  were  and  nothing  else,  and  he 
standing  looking  at  them  with  his  fine  smile.  There 
was  something  about  him  which  made  him  seem  even 
splendid.     The  Rat's  heart  thumped  with  startled  joy. 

"  Father,"  said  Marco,  "will  you  watch  The  Rat 
drill  us?     I  want  you  to  see  how  well  it  is  done." 

"Captain,  will  you  do  me  that  honor?"  Loristan 
said  to  The  Rat,  and  to  even  these  words  he  gave  the 
right  tone,  neither  jesting  nor  too  serious.  Because  it 
was  so  right  a  tone,  The  Rat's  pulses  beat  only  with 
exultation.  This  god  of  his  had  looked  at  his  maps, 
he  had  talked  of  his  plans,  he  had  come  to  see  the 
soldiers  who  were  his  work !  The  Rat  began  his  drill 
as  if  he  had  been  reveiwing  an  army. 

What  Loristan  saw  done  was  wonderful  in  its 
mechanical  exactness.  The  Squad  moved  like  the  per- 
fect parts  of  a  perfect  machine.  That  they  could  so 
do  it  in  such  space,  and  that  they  should  have  accom- 
plished such  precision,  was  an  extraordinary  testimo- 
nial to  the  military  efficiency  and  curious  qualities  of 
this  one  hunchbacked,  vagabond  officer. 

"  That  is  magnificent !  "  the  spectator  said,  when  it 
was  over.  "  It  could  not  be  better  done.  Allow  me 
to  congratulate  you." 

He  shook  The  Rat's  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  man's, 
and,  after  he  had  shaken  it,  he  put  his  own  hand  lightly 
on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  let  it  rest  there  as  he  talked 
a  few  minutes  to  them  all. 

He  kept  his  talk  within  the  game,  and  his  clear  com- 
158 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

prehension  of  it  added  a  flavor  which  even  the  dullest 
member  of  the  Squad  was  elated  by.  Sometimes  you 
couldn't  understand  toffs  when  they  made  a  shy  at 
being  friendly,  but  you  could  understand  him,  and  he 
stirred  up  your  spirits.  He  didn't  make  jokes  with 
you,  either,  as  if  a  chap  had  to  be  kept  grinning.  After 
the  few  minutes  were  over,  he  went  away.  Then  they 
sat  down  again  in  their  circle  and  talked  about  him, 
because  they  could  talk  and  think  about  nothing  else. 
They  stared  at  Marco  furtively,  feeling  as  if  he  were  a 
creature  of  another  world  because  he  had  lived  with 
this  man.  They  stared  at  The  Rat  in  a  new  way  also. 
The  wonderful-looking  hand  had  rested  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  he  had  been  told  that  what  he  had  done  was 
magnificent. 

"  When  you  said  you  wished  your  father  could  have 
seen  the  drill,"  said  The  Rat,  "  you  took  my  breath 
away.  I  'd  never  have  had  the  cheek  to  think  of  it 
myself  —  and  I  'd  never  have  dared  to  let  you  ask  him, 
even  if  you  wanted  to  do  it.  And  he  came  himself ! 
It  struck  me  dumb." 

"If  he  came,"  said  Marco,  "  it  was  because  he 
wanted  to  see  it." 

When  they  had  finished  talking,  it  was  time  for 
Marco  and  The  Rat  to  go  on  their  way.  Loristan  had 
given  The  Rat  an  errand.  At  a  certain  hour  he  was  to 
present  himself  at  a  certain  shop  and  receive  a  pack- 
age. 

"  Let  him  do  it  alone,"  Loristan  said  to  Marco. 
159 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  He  will  be  better  pleased.  His  desire  is  to  feel  that 
he  is  trusted  to  do  things  alone." 

So  they  parted  at  a  street  corner,  Marco  to  walk 
back  to  No.  7  Philibert  Place,  The  Rat  to  execute  his 
commission.  Marco  turned  into  one  of  the  better 
streets,  through  which  he  often  passed  on  his  way- 
home.  It  was  not  a  fashionable  quarter,  but  it  con- 
tained some  respectable  houses  in  whose  windows  here 
and  there  were  to  be  seen  neat  cards  bearing  the  word 
"  Apartments,"  which  meant  that  the  owner  of  the 
house  would  let  to  lodgers  his  drawing-room  or  sitting- 
room  suite. 

As  Marco  walked  up  the  street,  he  saw  some  one 
come  out  of  the  door  of  one  of  the  houses  and  walk 
quickly  and  lightly  down  the  pavement.  It  was  a 
young  woman  wearing  an  elegant  though  quiet  dress, 
and  a  hat  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  bought  in  Paris 
or  Vienna.  She  had,  in  fact,  a  slightly  foreign  air, 
and  it  was  this,  indeed,  which  made  Marco  look  at  her 
long  enough  to  see  that  she  was  also  a  graceful  and 
lovely  person:  He  wondered  what  her  nationality 
was.  Even  at  some  yards'  distance  he  could  see  that 
she  had  long  dark  eyes  and  a  curved  mouth  which 
seemed  to  be  smiling  to  itself.  He  thought  she  might 
be  Spanish  or  Italian. 

He  was  trying  to  decide  which  of  the  two  countries 
she  belonged  to,  as  she  drew  near  to  him,  but  quite  sud- 
denly the  curved  mouth  ceased  smiling  as  her  foot 
seemed  to  catch  in  a  break  in  the  pavement,  and  she  so 
160 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

lost  her  balance  that  she  would  have  fallen  if  he  had 
not  leaped  forward  and  caught  her. 

She  was  light  and  slender,  and  he  was  a  strong  lad 
and  managed  to  steady  her.  An  expression  of  sharp 
momentary  anguish  crossed  her  face. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,"  Marco  said. 

She  bit  her  lip  and  clutched  his  shoulder  very  hard 
with  her  slim  hand. 

"  I  have  twisted  my  ankle,"  she  answered.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  have  twisted  it  badly.  Thank  you  for  saving 
me.     I  should  have  had  a  bad  fall." 

Her  long,  dark  eyes  were  very  sweet  and  grateful. 
She  tried  to  smile,  but  there  was  such  distress  under  the 
effort  that  Marco  was  afraid  she  must  have  hurt  her- 
self very  much. 

"  Can  you  stand  on  your  foot  at  all  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  can  stand  a  little  now,"  she  said,  "  but  I  might 
not  be  able  to  stand  in  a  few  minutes.  I  must  get 
back  to  the  house  while  I  can  bear  to  touch  the  ground 
with  it.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  to  go  with  me.  Fortunately  it  is  only  a  few 
yards  away." 

"Yes,"  Marco  answered.  "I  saw  you  come  out 
of  the  house.  If  you  will  lean  on  my  shoulder,  I 
can  soon  help  you  back.  I  am  glad  to  do  it.  Shall 
we  try  now  ?  " 

She  had  a  gentle  and  soft  manner  which  would 
have  appealed  to  any  boy.  Her  voice  was  musical  and 
her  enunciation  exquisite.  Whether  she  was  Spanish 
161 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

or  Italian,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  her  a  person  who  did 
not  always  live  in  London  lodgings,  even  of  the  better 
class. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  answered  him.  "  It  is  very 
kind  of  you.  You  are  very  strong,  I  see.  But  I  am 
glad  to  have  only  a  few  steps  to  go." 

She  rested  on  his  shoulder  as  well  as  on  her  um- 
brella, but  it  was  plain  that  every  movement  gave  her 
intense  pain.  She  caught  her  lip  with  her  teeth,  and 
Marco  thought  she  turned  white.  He  could  not  help 
liking  her.  She  was  so  lovely  and  gracious  and  brave. 
He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  suffering  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  so  sorry !  "  he  said,  as  he  helped  her,  and  his 
boy's  voice  had  something  of  the  wonderful  sympa- 
thetic tone  of  Loristan's.  The  beautiful  lady  herself 
remarked  it,  and  thought  how  unlike  it  was  to  the 
ordinary  boy-voice. 

"  I  have  a  latch-key,"  she  said,  when  they  stood  on 
the  low  step. 

She  found  the  latch-key  in  her  purse  and  opened  the 
door.  Marco  helped  her  into  the  entrance-hall.  She 
sat  down  at  once  in  a  chair  near  the  hat-stand.  The 
place  was  quite  plain  and  old-fashioned  inside. 

"  Shall  I  ring  the  front-door  bell  to  call  some  one?  " 
Marco  inquired. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  the  servants  are  out,"  she  an- 
swered. "They  had  a  holiday.  Will  you  kindly 
close  the  door  ?  I  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  you  to  help 
162 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

me  into  the  sitting-room  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  I 
shall  find  all  I  want  there  —  if  you  will  kindly  hand 
me  a  few  things.  Some  one  may  come  in  presently  — 
perhaps  one  of  the  other  lodgers  —  and,  even  if  I  am 
alone  for  an  hour  or  so,  it  will  not  really  matter." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  find  the  landlady,"  Marco  suggested. 
The  beautiful  person  smiled. 

"  She  has  gone  to  her  sister's  wedding.  That  is 
why  I  was  going  out  to  spend  the  day  myself.  I  ar- 
ranged the  plan  to  accommodate  her.  How  good  you 
are!  I  shall  be  quite  comfortable  directly,  really.  I 
can  get  to  my  easy-chair  in  the  sitting-room  now  I  have 
rested  a  little." 

Marco  helped  her  to  her  feet,  and  her  sharp,  in- 
voluntary exclamation  of  pain  made  him  wince  inter- 
nally.    Perhaps  it  was  a  worse  sprain  than  she  knew. 

The  house  was  of  the  early- Victorian  London  order., 
A  "  front  lobby "  with  a  dining-room  on  the  right 
hand,  and  a  "  back  lobby,"  after  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
was  passed,  out  of  which  opened  the  basement  kitchen 
staircase  and  a  sitting-room  looking  out  on  a  gloomy 
nagged  back  yard  inclosed  by  high  walls.  The  sitting- 
room  was  rather  gloomy  itself,  but  there  were  a  few 
luxurious  things  among  the  ordinary  furnishings. 
There  was  an  easy-chair  with  a  small  table  near  it,  and 
on  the  table  were  a  silver  lamp  and  some  rather  elegant 
trifles.  Marco  helped  his  charge  to  the  easy-chair  and 
put  a  cushion  from  the  sofa  under  her  foot.  He  did 
163 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

it  very  gently,  and,  as  he  rose  after  doing  it,  he  saw- 
that  the  long,  soft  dark  eyes  were  looking  at  him  in  a 
curious  way. 

"  I  must  go  away  now,"  he  said,  "  but  I  do  not  like 
to  leave  you.     May  I  go  for  a  doctor?  " 

"  How  dear  you  are !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  I  do 
not  want  one,  thank  you.  I  know  exactly  what  to  do 
for  a  sprained  ankle.  And  perhaps  mine  is  not  really 
a  sprain.     I  am  going  to  take  off  my  shoe  and  see." 

"  May  I  help  you  ?  "  Marco  asked,  and  he  kneeled 
down  again  and  carefully  unfastened  her  shoe  and 
withdrew  it  from  her  foot.  It  was  a  slender  and 
delicate  foot  in  a  silk  stocking,  and  she  bent  and  gently 
touched  and  rubbed  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  when  she  raised  herself,  "  I  do  not 
think  it  is  a  sprain.  Now  that  the  shoe  is  off  and  the 
foot  rests  on  the  cushion,  it  is  much  more  comfortable, 
much  more.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  If  you  had  not 
been  passing  I  might  have  had  a  dangerous  fall." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  been  able  to  help  you," 
Marco  answered,  with  an  air  of  relief.  "  Now  I 
must  go,  if  you  think  you  will  be  all  right." 

*  Don't  go  yet,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I 
should  like  to  know  you  a  little  better,  if  I  may.  I 
am  so  grateful.  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you.  You 
have  such  beautiful  manners  for  a  boy,"  she  ended, 
with  a  pretty,  kind  laugh,  "  and  I  believe  I  know  where 
you  got  them  from." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  Marco  answered,  won- 
164 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

dering  if  he  did  not  redden  a  little.  "  But  I  must  go 
because  my  father  will  — " 

"  Your  father  would  let  you  stay  and  talk  to  me," 
she  said,  with  even  a  prettier  kindliness  than  before. 
"  It  is  from  him  you  have  inherited  your  beautiful 
manner.  He  was  once  a  friend  of  mine.  I  hope  he  is 
my  friend  still,  though  perhaps  he  has  forgotten  me." 

All  that  Marco  had  ever  learned  and  all  that  he  had 
ever  trained  himself  to  remember,  quickly  rushed  back 
upon  him  now,  because  he  had  a  clear  and  rapidly 
working  brain,  and  had  not  lived  the  ordinary  boy's 
life.  Here  was  a  beautiful  lady  of  whom  he  knew 
nothing  at  all  but  that  she  had  twisted  her  foot  in  the 
street  and  he  had  helped  her  back  into  her  house.  If 
silence  was  still  the  order,  it  was  not  for  him  to  know 
things  or  ask  questions  or  answer  them.  She  might 
be  the  loveliest  lady  in  the  world  and  his  father  her 
dearest  friend,  but,  even  if  this  were  so,  he  could  best 
serve  them  both  by  obeying  her  friend's  commands 
with  all  courtesy,  and  forgetting  no  instruction  he  had 
given. 

"  I  do  not  think  my  father  ever  forgets  any  one,"  he 
answered. 

"  No,  I  am  sure  he  does  not,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Has  he  been  to  Samavia  during  the  last  three  years  ?  " 

Marco  paused  a  moment. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  not  the  boy  you  think  I  am,"  he  said. 
"My  father  has  never  been  to  Samavia." 

"He  has  not?  But  —  you  are  Marco  Loristan?" 
165 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Yes.     That  is  my  name." 

Suddenly  she  leaned  forward  and  her  long  lovely 
eyes  filled  with  fire. 

"  Then  you  are  a  Samavian,  and  you  know  of  the 
disasters  overwhelming  us.  You  know  all  the  hideous- 
ness  and  barbarity  of  what  is  being  done.  Your 
father's  son  must  know  it  all !  " 

"  Every  one  knows  it,"  said  Marco. 

"  But  it  is  your  country  —  your  own !  Your  blood 
must  burn  in  your  veins !  " 

Marco  stood  quite  still  and  looked  at  her.  His  eyes 
told  whether  his  blood  burned  or  not,  but  he  did  not 
speak.  His  look  was  answer  enough,  since  he  did  not 
wish  to  say  anything. 

"  What  does  your  father  think  ?  I  am  a  Samavian 
myself,  and  I  think  night  and  day.  What  does  he 
think  of  the  rumor  about  the  descendant  of  the  Lost 
Prince?     Does  he  believe  it?  "  eagerly. 

Marco  was  thinking  very  rapidly.  Her  beautiful 
face  was  glowing  with  emotion,  her  beautiful  voice 
trembled.  That  she  should  be  a  Samavian,  and  love 
Samavia,  and  pour  her  feeling  forth  even  to  a  boy, 
was  deeply  moving  to  him.  But  howsoever  one  was 
moved,  one  must  remember  that  silence  was  still  the 
order.  When  one  was  very  young,  one  must  remem- 
ber orders  first  of  all. 

"  It  might  be  only  a  newspaper  story,"  he  said. 
"  He  says  one  cannot  trust  such  things.     If  you  know 
him,  you  know  he  is  very  calm." 
166 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

"Has  he  taught  you  to  be  calm  too?"  she  said 
pathetically.  "  You  are  only  a  boy.  Boys  are  not 
calm.  Neither  are  women  when  their  hearts  are 
wrung.  Oh,  my  Samavia !  Oh,  my  poor  little  coun- 
try !  My  brave,  tortured  country !  "  and  with  a  sud- 
den sob  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

A  great  lump  mounted  to  Marco's  throat.  Boys 
could  not  cry,  but  he  knew  what  she  meant  when  she 
said  her  heart  was  wrung. 

When  she  lifted  her  head,  the  tears  in  her  eyes  made 
them  softer  than  ever. 

"  If  I  were  a  million  Samavians  instead  of  one 
woman,  I  should  know  what  to  do!  "  she  cried.  "  If 
your  father  were  a  million  Samavians,  he  would  know, 
too.  He  would  find  Ivor's  descendant,  if  he  is  on  the 
earth,  and  he  would  end  all  this  horror !  " 

"Who  would  not  end  it  if  they  could?"  cried 
Marco,  quite  fiercely. 

"  But  men  like  your  father,  men  who  are  Sama- 
vians, must  think  night  and  day  about  it  as  I  do,"  she 
impetuously  insisted.  "  You  see,  I  cannot  help  pour- 
ing my  thoughts  out  even  to  a  boy  —  because  he  is  a 
Samavian.  Only  Samavians  care.  Samavia  seems  so 
little  and  unimportant  to  other  people.  They  don't 
even  seem  to  know  that  the  blood  she  is  pouring  forth 
pours  from  human  veins  and  beating  human  hearts. 
Men  like  your  father  must  think,  and  plan,  and  feel 
that  they  must  —  must  find  a  way.  Even  a  woman 
feels  it.  Even  a  boy  must.  Stefan  Loristan  cannot 
167 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

be  sitting  quietly  at  home,  knowing  that  Samavian 
hearts  are  being  shot  through  and  Samavian  blood 
poured  forth.     He  cannot  think  and  say  nothing!" 

Marco  started  in  spite  of  himself.  He  felt  as  if 
his  father  had  been  struck  in  the  face.  How  dare 
she  say  such  words!  Big  as  he  was,  suddenly  he 
looked  bigger,  and  the  beautiful  lady  saw  that  he  did. 

"  He  is  my  father,"  he  said  slowly. 

She  was  a  clever,  beautiful  person,  and  saw  that  she 
had  made  a  great  mistake. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  used 
the  wrong  words  because  I  was  excited.  That  is  the 
way  with  women.  You  must  see  that  I  meant  that  I 
knew  he  was  giving  his  heart  and  strength,  his  whole 
being,  to  Samavia,  even  though  he  must  stay  in  Lon- 
don." 

She  started  and  turned  her  head  to  listen  to  the 
sound  of  some  one  using  the  latch-key  and  opening 
the  front  door.  The  some  one  came  in  with  the  heavy 
step  of  a  man. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  lodgers,"  she  said.  "  I  think  it  is 
the  one  who  lives  in  the  third  floor  sitting-room." 

"  Then  you  won't  be  alone  when  I  go,"  said  Marco. 
"I  am  glad  some  one  has  come.  I  will  say  good- 
morning.     May  I  tell  my  father  your  name?" 

"  Tell  me  that  you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  ex- 
pressing myself  so  awkwardly,"  she  said. 

"  You    could  n't    have   meant    it.     I    know    that," 
Marco  answered  boyishly.     "  You  could  n't." 
168 


LORISTAN  ATTENDS  A  DRILL 

"  No,  I  could  n't,"  she  repeated,  with  the  same  em- 
phasis on  the  words. 

She  took  a  card  from  a  silver  case  on  the  table  and 
gave  it  to  him. 

"  Your  father  will  remember  my  name,"  she  said. 
"  I  hope  he  will  let  me  see  him  and  tell  him  how  you 
took  care  of  me." 

She  shook  his  hand  warmly  and  let  him  go.  But 
just  as  he  reached  the  door  she  spoke  again. 

"  Oh,  may  I  ask  you  to  do  one  thing  more  before 
you  leave  me  ?  "  she  said  suddenly.  "  I  hope  you  won't 
mind.  Will  you  run  up-stairs  into  the  drawing-room 
and  bring  me  the  purple  book  from  the  small  table  ?  I 
shall  not  mind  being  alone  if  I  have  something  to 
read." 

"  A  purple  book?     On  a  small  table?  "  said  Marco. 

"  Between  the  two  long  windows,"  she  smiled  back 
at  him. 

The  drawing-room  of  such  houses  as  these  is  always 
to  be  reached  by  one  short  flight  of  stairs. 

Marco  ran  up  lightly. 


169 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MARCO   DOES    NOT   ANSWER 

BY  the  time  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  stairs,  the 
beautiful  lady  had  risen  from  her  seat  in  the 
back  room  and  walked  into  the  dining-room  at  the 
front.  A  heavily-built,  dark-bearded  man  was  stand- 
ing inside  the  door  as  if  waiting  for  her. 

"  I  could  do  nothing  with  him,"  she  said  at  once, 
in  her  soft  voice,  speaking  quite  prettily  and  gently, 
as  if  what  she  said  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  "  I  managed  the  little  trick  of  the  sprained 
foot  really  well,  and  got  him  into  the  house.  He  is  an 
amiable  boy  with  perfect  manners,  and  I  thought  it 
might  be  easy  to  surprise  him  into  saying  more  than  he 
knew  he  was  saying.  You  can  generally  do  that  with 
children  and  young  things.  But  he  either  knows  noth- 
ing or  has  been  trained  to  hold  his  tongue.  He  's  not 
stupid,  and  he  's  of  a  high  spirit.  I  made  a  pathetic 
little  scene  about  Samavia,  because  I  saw  he  could  be 
worked  up.  It  did  work  him  up.  I  tried  him  with 
the  Lost  Prince  rumor;  but,  if  there  is  truth  in  it,  he 
does  not  or  will  not  know.  I  tried  to  make  him  lose 
his  temper  and  betray  something  in  defending  his 
170 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

father,  whom  he  thinks  a  god,  by  the  way.  But  I 
made  a  mistake.  I  saw  that.  It 's  a  pity.  Boys  can 
sometimes  be  made  to  tell  anything."  She  spoke  very 
quickly  under  her  breath.  The  man  spoke  quickly 
too. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  sent  him  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  look  for  a 
book.  He  will  look  for  a  few  minutes.  Listen. 
He  's  an  innocent  boy.  He  sees  me  only  as  a  gentle 
angel.  Nothing  will  shake  him  so  much  as  to  hear 
me  tell  him  the  truth  suddenly.  It  will  be  such  a  shock 
to  him  that  perhaps  you  can  do  something  with  him 
then.  He  may  lose  his  hold  on  himself.  He  's  only  a 
boy." 

"  You  're  right,"  said  the  bearded  man.  "  And 
when  he  finds  out  he  is  not  free  to  go,  it  may  alarm 
him  and  we  may  get  something  worth  while." 

"If  we  could  find  out  what  is  true,  or  what  Lor- 
istan  thinks  is  true,  we  should  have  a  clue  to  work 
from,"  she  said. 

"  We  have  not  much  time,"  the  man  whispered. 
"  We  are  ordered  to  Bosnia  at  once.  Before  mid- 
night we  must  be  on  the  way." 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  other  room.     He  is  coming." 

When  Marco  entered  the  room,  the  heavily-built 
man  with  the  pointed  dark  beard  was  standing  by  the 
easy-chair. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  find  the  book,"  he  apol- 
ogized.    "  I  looked  on  all  the  tables." 
171 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  and  search  for  it  myself," 
said  the  Lovely  Person. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  stood  up  smiling.  And 
at  her  first  movement  Marco  saw  that  she  was  not  dis- 
abled in  the  least. 

"  Your  foot!  "  he  exclaimed.     "  It 's  better?  " 

"  It  was  n't  hurt,"  she  answered,  in  her  softly  pretty 
voice  and  with  her  softly  pretty  smile.  "  I  only  made 
you  think  so." 

It  was  part  of  her  plan  to  spare  him  nothing  of 
shock  in  her  sudden  transformation.  Marco  felt  his 
breath  leave  him  for  a  moment. 

"  I  made  you  believe  I  was  hurt  because  I  wanted 
you  to  come  into  the  house  with  me,"  she  added.  "  I 
wished  to  find  out  certain  things  I  am  sure  you  know." 

"  They  were  things  about  Samavia,"  said  the  man. 
"  Your  father  knows  them,  and  you  must  know  some- 
thing of  them  at  least.  It  is  necessary  that  we  should 
hear  what  you  can  tell  us.  We  shall  not  allow  you  to 
leave  the  house  until  you  have  answered  certain  ques- 
tions I  shall  ask  you." 

Then  Marco  began  to  understand.  He  had  heard 
his  father  speak  of  political  spies,  men  and  women  who 
were  paid  to  trace  the  people  that  certain  governments 
or  political  parties  desired  to  have  followed  and  ob- 
served. He  knew  it  was  their  work  to  search  out 
secrets,  to  disguise  themselves  and  live  among  inno- 
cent people  as  if  they  were  merely  ordinary  neighbors. 

They  must  be  spies  who  were  paid  to  follow  his 
172 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

father  because  he  was  a  Samavian  and  a  patriot.  He 
did  not  know  that  they  had  taken  the  house  two  months 
before,  and  had  accomplished  several  things  during 
their  apparently  innocent  stay  in  it  They  had  dis- 
covered Loristan  and  had  learned  to  know  his  outgo- 
ings and  incomings,  and  also  the  outgoings  and  incom- 
ings of  Lazarus,  Marco,  and  The  Rat.  But  they 
meant,  if  possible,  to  learn  other  things.  If  the  boy 
could  be  startled  and  terrified  into  unconscious  revela- 
tions, it  might  prove  well  worth  their  while  to  have 
played  this  bit  of  melodrama  before  they  locked  the 
front  door  behind  them  and  hastily  crossed  the  Chan- 
nel, leaving  their  landlord  to  discover  for  himself  that 
the  house  had  been  vacated. 

In  Marco's  mind  strange  things  were  happening. 
They  were  spies !  But  that  was  not  all.  The  Lovely 
Person  had  been  right  when  she  said  that  he  would 
receive  a  shock.  His  strong  young  chest  swelled.  In 
all  his  life,  he  had  never  come  face  to  face  with  black 
treachery  before.  He  could  not  grasp  it.  This  gentle 
and  friendly  being  with  the  grateful  soft  voice  and 
grateful  soft  eyes  had  betrayed  —  betrayed  him !  It 
seemed  impossible  to  believe  it,  and  yet  the  smile  on  her 
curved  mouth  told  him  that  it  was  true.  When  he  had 
sprung  to  help  her,  she  had  been  playing  a  trick! 
When  he  had  been  sorry  for  her  pain  and  had  winced 
at  the  sound  of  her  low  exclamation,  she  had  been  de- 
liberately laying  a  trap  to  harm  him.  For  a  few  sec- 
onds he  was  stunned  —  perhaps,  if  he  had  not  been  his 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

father's  son,  he  might  have  been  stunned  only.  But 
he  was  more.  When  the  first  seconds  had  passed, 
there  arose  slowly  within  him  a  sense  of  something  like 
high,  remote  disdain.  It  grew  in  his  deep  boy's  eyes 
as  he  gazed  directly  into  the  pupils  of  the  long  soft 
dark  ones.     His  body  felt  as  if  it  were  growing  taller. 

"  You  are  very  clever,"  he  said  slowly.  Then,  after 
a  second's  pause,  he  added,  "  I  was  too  young  to  know 
that  there  was  any  one  so  —  clever  —  in  the  world." 

The  Lovely  Person  laughed,  but  she  did  not  laugh 
easily.     She  spoke  to  her  companion. 

"  A  grand  seigneur! "  she  said.  "  As  one  looks  at 
him,  one  half  believes  it  is  true." 

The  man  with  the  beard  was  looking  very  angry. 
His  eyes  were  savage  and  his  dark  skin  reddened. 
Marco  thought  that  he  looked  at  him  as  if  he  hated 
him,  and  was  made  fierce  by  the  mere  sight  of  him,  for 
some  mysterious  reason. 

"  Two  days  before  you  left  Moscow,"  he  said, 
"  three  men  came  to  see  your  father.  They  looked  like 
peasants.  They  talked  to  him  for  more  than  an  hour. 
They  brought  with  them  a  roll  of  parchment.  Is  that 
not  true?" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 

"  Before  you  went  to  Moscow,  you  were  in  Buda- 
pest. You  went  there  from  Vienna.  You  were  there 
for  three  months,  and  your  father  saw  many  people. 
Some  of  them  came  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 
174 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

"  You  have  spent  your  life  in  traveling  from  one 
country  to  another,"  persisted  the  man.  "  You  know 
the  European  languages  as  if  you  were  a  courier,  or  the 
portier  in  a  Viennese  hotel.  Do  you  not?"  insult- 
ingly. 

Marco  did  not  answer. 

The  Lovely  Person  began  to  speak  to  the  man  rap- 
idly in  Russian. 

"  A  spy  and  an  adventurer  Stefan  Loristan  has  al- 
ways been  and  always  will  be,"  she  said.  "  We  know 
what  he  is.  The  police  in  every  capital  in  Europe 
know  him  as  a  sharper  and  a  vagabond,  as  well  as  a 
spy.  And  yet,  with  all  his  cleverness,  he  does  not 
seem  to  have  money.  What  did  he  do  with  the  bribe 
the  Maranovitch  gave  him  for  betraying  what  he  knew 
of  the  old  fortress?  The  boy  doesn't  even  suspect 
him.  Perhaps  it 's  true  that  he  knows  nothing.  Or 
perhaps  it  is  true  that  he  has  been  so  ill-treated  and 
flogged  from  his  babyhood  that  he  dare  not  speak. 
There  is  a  cowed  look  in  his  eyes  in  spite  of  his 
childish  swagger.  He's  been  both  starved  and 
beaten." 

The  outburst  was  well  done.  She  did  not  look  at 
Marco  as  she  poured  forth  her  words.  She  spoke 
with  the  abruptness  and  impetuosity  of  a  person  whose 
feelings  had  got  the  better  of  her.  If  Marco  was 
sensitive  about  his  father,  she  felt  sure  that  his  youth 
would  make  his  face  reveal  something  if  his  tongue  did 
not  —  if  he  understood  Russian,  which  was  one  of  the 
175 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

things  it  would  be  useful  to  find  out,  because  it  was  a 
fact  which  would  verify  many  other  things. 

Marco's  face  disappointed  her.  No  change  took 
place  in  it,  and  the  blood  did  not  rise  to  the  surface 
of  his  skin.  He  listened  with  an  uninterested  air, 
blank  and  cold  and  polite.  Let  them  say  what  they 
chose. 

The  man  twisted  his  pointed  beard  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  We  have  a  good  little  wine-cellar  downstairs,"  he 
said.  "  You  are  going  down  into  it,  and  you  will 
probably  stay  there  for  some  time  if  you  do  not  make 
up  your  mind  to  answer  my  questions.  You  think 
that  nothing  can  happen  to  you  in  a  house  in  a  London 
street  where  policemen  walk  up  and  down.  But  you 
are  mistaken.  If  you  yelled  now,  even  if  any  one 
chanced  to  hear  you,  they  would  only  think  you  were  a 
lad  getting  a  thrashing  he  deserved.  You  can  yell  as 
much  as  you  like  in  the  black  little  wine-cellar,  and  no 
one  will  hear  at  all.  We  only  took  this  house  for 
three  months,  and  we  shall  leave  it  to-night  without 
mentioning  the  fact  to  any  one.  If  we  choose  to 
leave  you  in  the  wine-cellar,  you  will  wait  there  until 
somebody  begins  to  notice  that  no  one  goes  in  and  out, 
and  chances  to  mention  it  to  the  landlord  —  which  few 
people  would  take  the  trouble  to  do.  Did  you  come 
here  from  Moscow?  " 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 

"  You  might  remain  in  the  good  little  black  cellar 
176 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

an  unpleasantly  long  time  before  you  were  found,"  the 
man  went  on,  quite  coolly.  "  Do  you  remember  the 
peasants  who  came  to  see  your  father  two  nights  be- 
fore you  left?" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 

"  By  the  time  it  was  discovered  that  the  house  was 
empty  and  people  came  in  to  make  sure,  you  might  be 
too  weak  to  call  out  and  attract  their  attention.  Did 
you  go  to  Budapest  from  Vienna,  and  were  you  there 
for  three  months?"  asked  the  inquisitor. 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 

"  You  are  too  good  for  the  little  black  cellar,"  put 
in  the  Lovely  Person.  "  I  like  you.  Don't  go  into 
it!" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  Marco  answered,  but  the  eyes 
which  were  like  Loristan's  gave  her  just  such  a  look 
as  Loristan  would  have  given  her,  and  she  felt  it.  It 
made  her  uncomfortable. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  were  ever  ill-treated  or  beaten," 
she  said.  "  I  tell  you,  the  little  black  cellar  will  be  a 
hard  thing.     Don't  go  there !  " 

And  this  time  Marco  said  nothing,  but  looked  at 
her  still  as  if  he  were  some  great  young  noble  who  was 
very  proud. 

He  knew  that  every  word  the  bearded  man  had 
spoken  was  true.  To  cry  out  would  be  of  no  use.  If 
they  went  away  and  left  him  behind  them,  there  was 
no  knowing  how  many  days  would  pass  before  the 
people  of  the  neighborhood  would  begin  to  suspect  that 
177 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  place  had  been  deserted,  or  how  long  it  would  be 
before  it  occurred  to  some  one  to  give  warning  to  the 
owner.  And  in  the  meantime,  neither  his  father  nor 
Lazarus  nor  The  Rat  would  have  the  faintest  reason 
for  guessing  where  he  was.  And  he  would  be  sitting 
alone  in  the  dark  in  the  wine-cellar.  He  did  not  know 
in  the  least  what  to  do  about  this  thing.  He  only 
knew  that  silence  was  still  the  order. 

"  It  is  a  jet-black  little  hole,"  the  man  said.  "  You 
might  crack  your  throat  in  it,  and  no  one  would  hear. 
Did  men  come  to  talk  with  your  father  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  when  you  were  in  Vienna?  " 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Marco. 

"  He  won't  tell,"  said  the  Lovely  Person.  "  I  am 
sorry  for  this  boy." 

"  He  may  tell  after  he  has  sat  in  the  good  little  black 
wine-cellar  for  a  few  hours,"  said  the  man  with  the 
pointed  beard.     "  Come  with  me !  " 

He  put  his  powerful  hand  on  Marco's  shoulder  and 
pushed  him  before  him.  Marco  made  no  struggle. 
He  remembered  what  his  father  had  said  about  the 
game  not  being  a  game.  It  was  n't  a  game  now,  but 
somehow  he  had  a  strong  haughty  feeling  of  not  being 
afraid. 

He  was  taken  through  the  hallway,  toward  the  rear, 
and  down  the  commonplace  flagged  steps  which  led  to 
the  basement.  Then  he  was  marched  through  a  nar- 
row, ill-lighted,  flagged  passage  to  a  door  in  the  wall. 
The  door  was  not  locked  and  stood  a  trifle  ajar.  His 
178 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

companion  pushed  it  farther  open  and  showed  part  of  a 
wine-cellar  which  was  so  dark  that  it  was  only  the 
shelves  nearest  the  door  that  Marco  could  faintly  see. 
His  captor  pushed  him  in  and  shut  the  door.  It  was 
as  black  a  hole  as  he  had  described.  Marco  stood  still 
in  the  midst  of  darkness  like  black  velvet.  His  guard 
turned  the  key. 

"  The  peasants  who  came  to  your  father  in  Moscow 
spoke  Samavian  and  were  big  men.  Do  you  remem- 
ber them?  "  he  asked  from  outside. 

"  I  know  nothing,"  answered  Marco. 

"  You  are  a  young  fool,"  the  voice  replied.  "  And 
I  believe  you  know  even  more  than  we  thought.  Your 
father  will  be  greatly  troubled  when  you  do  not  come 
home.  I  will  come  back  to  see  you  in  a  few  hours,  if  it 
is  possible.  I  will  tell  you,  however,  that  I  have  had 
disturbing  news  which  might  make  it  necessary  for  us 
to  leave  the  house  in  a  hurry.  I  might  not  have  time 
to  come  down  here  again  before  leaving." 

Marco  stood  with  his  back  against  a  bit  of  wall  and 
remained  silent. 

There  was  stillness  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
there  was  to  be  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  marching 
away. 

When  the  last  distant  echo  died  all  was  quite  silent, 
and  Marco  drew  a  long  breath.  Unbelievable  as  it 
may  appear,  it  was  in  one  sense  almost  a  breath  of  re- 
lief. In  the  rush  of  strange  feeling  which  had  swept 
over  him  when  he  found  himself  facing  the  astounding 
179 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

situation  up-stairs,  it  had  not  been  easy  to  realize  what 
his  thoughts  really  were ;  there  were  so  many  of  them 
and  they  came  so  fast.  How  could  he  quite  believe 
the  evidence  of  his  eyes  and  ears?  A  few  minutes, 
only  a  few  minutes,  had  changed  his  prettily  grateful 
and  kindly  acquaintance  into  a  subtle  and  cunning  crea- 
ture whose  love  for  Samavia  had  been  part  of  a  plot  to 
harm  it  and  to  harm  his  father. 

What  did  she  and  her  companion  want  to  do  —  what 
could  they  do  if  they  knew  the  things  they  were  trying 
to  force  him  to  tell? 

Marco  braced  his  back  against  the  wall  stoutly. 

"  What  will  it  be  best  to  think  about  first?  " 

This  he  said  because  one  of  the  most  absorbingly 
fascinating  things  he  and  his  father  talked  about  to- 
gether was  the  power  of  the  thoughts  which  human 
beings  allow  to  pass  through  their  minds  —  the  strange 
strength  of  them.  When  they  talked  of  this,  Marco 
felt  as  if  he  were  listening  to  some  marvelous  Eastern 
story  of  magic  which  was  true.  In  Loristan's  travels, 
he  had  visited  the  far  Oriental  countries,  and  he  had 
seen  and  learned  many  things  which  seemed  marvels, 
and  they  had  taught  him  deep  thinking.  He  had 
known,  and  reasoned  through  days  with  men  who  be- 
lieved that  when  they  desired  a  thing,  clear  and  exalted 
thought  would  bring  it  to  them.  He  had  discovered 
why  they  believed  this,  and  had  learned  to  understand 
their  profound  arguments. 

What  he  himself  believed,  he  had  taught  Marco  quite 
180 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

simply  from  his  childhood.  It  was  this :  he  himself  — 
Marco,  with  the  strong  boy-body,  the  thick  mat  of 
black  hair,  and  the  patched  clothes  —  was  the  magician. 
He  held  and  waved  his  wand  himself  —  and  his  wand 
was  his  own  Thought.  When  special  privation  or 
anxiety  beset  them,  it  was  their  rule  to  say,  "  What  will 
it  be  best  to  think  about  first?"  which  was  Marco's 
reason  for  saying  it  to  himself  now  as  he  stood  in  the 
darkness  which  was  like  black  velvet. 

He  waited  a  few  minutes  for  the  right  thing  to  come 
to  him. 

"  I  will  think  of  the  very  old  hermit  who  lived  on 
the  ledge  of  the  mountains  in  India  and  who  let  my 
father  talk  to  him  through  all  one  night,"  he  said  at 
last.  This  had  been  a  wonderful  story  and  one  of  his 
favorites.  Loristan  had  traveled  far  to  see  this  an- 
cient Buddhist,  and  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  during 
that  one  night  had  made  changes  in  his  life.  The  part 
of  the  story  which  came  back  to  Marco  now  was  these 
words : 

"  Let  pass  through  thy  mind,  my  son,  only  the  image 
thou  wouldst  desire  to  see  a  truth.  Meditate  only 
upon  the  wish  of  thy  heart,  seeing  first  that  it  can  in- 
jure no  man  and  is  not  ignoble.  Then  will  it  take 
earthly  form  and  draw  near  to  thee.  This  is  the  law 
of  That  which  Creates." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  Marco  said  aloud.     "  I  shall  not 
be  afraid.     In  some  way  I  shall  get  out." 
181 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

This  was  the  image  he  wanted  most  to  keep  steadily 
in  his  mind  —  that  nothing  could  make  him  afraid,  and 
that  in  some  way  he  would  get  out  of  the  wine- 
cellar. 

He  thought  of  this  for  some  minutes,  and  said  the 
words  over  several  times.  He  felt  more  like  himself 
when  he  had  done  it. 

"  When  my  eyes  are  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  I 
shall  see  if  there  is  any  little  glimmer  of  light  any- 
where," he  said  next. 

He  waited  with  patience,  and  it  seemed  for  some 
time  that  he  saw  no  glimmer  at  all.  He  put  out  his 
hands  on  either  side  of  him,  and  found  that,  on  the  side 
of  the  wall  against  which  he  stood,  there  seemed  to  be 
no  shelves.  Perhaps  the  cellar  had  been  used  for  other 
purposes  than  the  storing  of  wine,  and,  if  that  was 
true,  there  might  be  somewhere  some  opening  for  ven- 
tilation. The  air  was  not  bad,  but  then  the  door  had 
not  been  shut  tightly  when  the  man  opened  it. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  he  repeated.  "  I  shall  not  be 
afraid.     In  some  way  I  shall  get  out" 

He  would  not  allow  himself  to  stop  and  think  about 
his  father  waiting  for  his  return.  He  knew  that 
would  only  rouse  his  emotions  and  weaken  his  courage. 
He  began  to  feel  his  way  carefully  along  the  wall.  It 
reached  farther  than  he  had  thought  it  would.  The 
cellar  was  not  so  very  small.  He  crept  round  it  grad- 
ually, and,  when  he  had  crept  round  it,  he  made  his 
way  across  it,  keeping  his  hands  extended  before  him 
182 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

and  setting  down  each  foot  cautiously.  Then  he  sat 
down  on  the  stone  floor  and  thought  again,  and  what 
he  thought  was  of  the  things  the  old  Buddhist  had 
told  his  father,  and  that  there  was  a  way  out  of  this 
place  for  him,  and  he  should  somehow  find  it,  and,  be- 
fore too  long  a  time  had  passed,  be  walking  in  the 
street  again. 

It  was  while  he  was  thinking  in  this  way  that  he  felt 
a  startling  thing.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  something 
touched  him.  It  made  him  jump,  though  the  touch 
was  so  light  and  soft  that  it  was  scarcely  a  touch  at 
all,  in  fact  he  could  not  be  sure  that  he  had  not  im- 
agined it.  He  stood  up  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
again.  Perhaps  the  suddenness  of  his  movement 
placed  him  at  some  angle  he  had  not  reached  before,  or 
perhaps  his  eyes  had  become  more  completely  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness,  for,  as  he  turned  his  head  to 
listen,  he  made  a  discovery :  above  the  door  there  was  a 
place  where  the  velvet  blackness  was  not  so  dense. 
There  was  something  like  a  slit  in  the  wall,  though,  as 
it  did  not  open  upon  daylight  but  upon  the  dark  pass- 
age, it  was  not  light  it  admitted  so  much  as  a  lesser 
shade  of  darkness.  But  even  that  was  better  than 
nothing,  and  Marco  drew  another  long  breath. 

"  That  is  only  the  beginning.  I  shall  find  a  way  out," 
he  said.     "I  shall." 

He  remembered  reading  a  story  of  a  man  who,  be- 
ing shut  by  accident  in  a  safety  vault,  passed  through 
such  terrors  before  his  release  that  he  believed  he  had 
183 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

spent  two  days  and  nights  in  the  place  when  he  had 
been  there  only  a  few  hours. 

"  His  thoughts  did  that.  I  must  remember.  I  will 
sit  down  again  and  begin  thinking  of  all  the  pictures  in 
the  cabinet  rooms  of  the  Art  History  Museum  in 
Vienna.  It  will  take  some  time,  and  then  there  are 
the  others,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  good  plan.  While  he  could  keep  his  mind 
upon  the  game  which  had  helped  him  to  pass  so  many 
dull  hours,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else,  as  it  re- 
quired close  attention  —  and  perhaps,  as  the  day  went 
on,  his  captors  would  begin  to  feel  that  it  was  not 
safe  to  run  the  risk  of  doing  a  thing  as  desperate  as 
this  would  be.  They  might  think  better  of  it  before 
they  left  the  house  at  least.  In  any  case,  he  had 
learned  enough  from  Loristan  to  realize  that  only 
harm  could  come  from  letting  one's  mind  run 
wild. 

"  A  mind  is  either  an  engine  with  broken  and  flying 
gear,  or  a  giant  power  under  control,"  was  the  thing 
they  knew. 

He  had  walked  in  imagination  through  three  of  the 
cabinet  rooms  and  was  turning  mentally  into  a  fourth, 
when  he  found  himself  starting  again  quite  violently. 
This  time  it  was  not  at  a  touch  but  at  a  sound.  Surely 
it  was  a  sound.  And  it  was  in  the  cellar  with  him. 
But  it  was  the  tiniest  possible  noise,  a  ghost  of  a  squeak 
and  a  suggestion  of  a  movement.  It  came  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  cellar,  the  side  where  the  shelves 
184 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

were.  He  looked  across  in  the  darkness,  and  in  the 
darkness  saw  a  light  which  there  could  be  no  mistake 
about.  It  was  a  light,  two  lights  indeed,  two  round 
phosphorescent  greenish  balls.  They  were  two  eyes 
staring  at  him.  And  then  he  heard  another  sound. 
Not  a  squeak  this  time,  but  something  so  homely  and 
comfortable  that  he  actually  burst  out  laughing.  It 
was  a  cat  purring,  a  nice  warm  cat!  And  she  was 
curled  up  on  one  of  the  lower  shelves  purring  to  some 
new-born  kittens.  He  knew  there  were  kittens  because 
it  was  plain  now  what  the  tiny  squeak  had  been,  and 
it  was  made  plainer  by  the  fact  that  he  heard  another 
much  more  distinct  one  and  then  another.  They  had 
all  been  asleep  when  he  had  come  into  the  cellar.  If 
the  mother  had  been  awake,  she  had  probably  been  very 
much  afraid.  Afterward  she  had  perhaps  come  down 
from  her  shelf  to  investigate,  and  had  passed  close  to 
him.  The  feeling  of  relief  which  came  upon  him  at 
this  queer  and  simple  discovery  was  wonderful.  It 
was  so  natural  and  comfortable  an  e very-day  thing  that 
it  seemed  to  make  spies  and  criminals  unreal,  and  only 
natural  things  possible.  With  a  mother  cat  purring 
away  among  her  kittens,  even  a  dark  wine-cellar  was 
not  so  black.  He  got  up  and  kneeled  by  the  shelf. 
The  greenish  eyes  did  not  shine  in  an  unfriendly  way. 
He  could  feel  that  the  owner  of  them  was  a  nice  big 
cat,  and  he  counted  four  round  little  balls  of  kittens.  It 
was  a  curious  delight  to  stroke  the  soft  fur  and  talk 
to  the  mother  cat.  She  answered  with  purring,  as  if 
185 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

she  liked  the  sense  of  friendly  human  nearness. 
Marco  laughed  to  himself. 

"  It 's  queer  what  a  difference  it  makes ! "  he  said. 
"  It  is  almost  like  finding  a  window." 

The  mere  presence  of  these  harmless  living  things 
was  companionship.  He  sat  down  close  to  the  low 
shelf  and  listened  to  the  motherly  purring,  now  and 
then  speaking  and  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch  the 
warm  fur.  The  phosphorescent  light  in  the  green  eyes 
was  a  comfort  in  itself. 

"  We  shall  get  out  of  this  —  both  of  us,"  he  said. 
"  We  shall  not  be  here  very  long,  Puss-cat." 

He  was  not  troubled  by  the  fear  of  being  really 
hungry  for  some  time.  He  was  so  used  to  eating 
scantily  from  necessity,  and  to  passing  long  hours 
without  food  during  his  journeys,  that  he  had  proved 
to  himself  that  fasting  is  not,  after  all,  such  a  desperate 
ordeal  as  most  people  imagine.  If  you  begin  by  ex- 
pecting to  feel  famished  and  by  counting  the  hours  be- 
tween your  meals,  you  will  begin  to  be  ravenous.  But 
he  knew  better. 

The  time  passed  slowly ;  but  he  had  known  it  would 
pass  slowly,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  watch 
it  nor  ask  himself  questions  about  it.  He  was  not  a 
restless  boy,  but,  like  his  father,  could  stand  or  sit  or 
lie  still.  Now  and  then  he  could  hear  distant  rum- 
blings of  carts  and  vans  passing  in  the  street.  There 
was  a  certain  degree  of  companionship  in  these  also. 
He  kept  his  place  near  the  cat  and  his  hand  where  he 
186 


MARCO  DOES  NOT  ANSWER 

could  occasionally  touch  her.  He  could  lift  his  eyes 
now  and  then  to  the  place  where  the  dim  glimmer  of 
something  like  light  showed  itself. 

Perhaps  the  stillness,  perhaps  the  darkness,  perhaps 
the  purring  of  the  mother  cat,  probably  all  three,  caused 
his  thoughts  to  begin  to  travel  through  his  mind  slowly 
and  more  slowly.  At  last  they  ceased  and  he  fell 
asleep.  The  mother  cat  purred  for  some  time,  and 
then  fell  asleep  herself. 


187 


CHAPTER  XV 

A   SOUND   IN   A  DREAM 

MARCO  slept  peacefully  for  several  hours. 
There  was  nothing  to  awaken  him  during  that 
time.  But  at  the  end  of  it,  his  sleep  was  penetrated 
by  a  definite  sound.  He  had  dreamed  of  hearing  a 
voice  at  a  distance,  and,  as  he  tried  in  his  dream  to 
hear  what  it  said,  a  brief  metallic  ringing  sound  awak- 
ened him  outright.  It  was  over  by  the  time  he  was 
fully  conscious,  and  at  once  he  realized  that  the  voice 
of  his  dream  had  been  a  real  one,  and  was  speaking 
still.  It  was  the  Lovely  Person's  voice,  and  she  was 
speaking  rapidly,  as  if  she  were  in  the  greatest  haste. 
She  was  speaking  through  the  door. 

"  You  will  have  to  search  for  it,"  was  all  he  heard. 
"  I  have  not  a  moment !  "  And,  as  he  listened  to  her 
hurriedly  departing  feet,  there  came  to  him  with  their 
hastening  echoes  the  words,  "  You  are  too  good  for 
the  cellar.     I  like  you !  " 

He  sprang  to  the  door  and  tried  it,  but  it  was  still 
locked.  The  feet  ran  up  the  cellar  steps  and  through 
the  upper  hall,  and  the  front  door  closed  with  a  bang. 
The  two  people  had  gone  away,  as  they  had  threatened. 
The  voice  had  been  excited  as  well  as  hurried.     Some- 


A  SOUND  IN  A  DREAM 

thing  had  happened  to  frighten  them,  and  they  had  left 
the  house  in  great  haste. 

Marco  turned  and  stood  with  his  back  against  the 
door.  The  cat  had  awakened  and  she  was  gazing  at 
him  with  her  green  eyes.  She  began  to  purr  encourag- 
ingly. She  really  helped  Marco  to  think.  He  was 
thinking  with  all  his  might  and  trying  to  remember. 

"  What  did  she  come  for  ?  She  came  for  some- 
thing," he  said  to  himself.  "What  did  she  say?  I 
only  heard  part  of  it,  because  I  was  asleep.  The  voice 
in  the  dream  was  part  of  it.  The  part  I  heard  was, 
■  You  will  have  to  search  for  it.  I  have  not  a  mo- 
ment.' And  as  she  ran  down  the  passage,  she  called 
back,  '  You  are  too  good  for  the  cellar.  I  like  you.' 
He  said  the  words  over  and  over  again  and  tried  to  re- 
call exactly  how  they  had  sounded,  and  also  to  recall 
the  voice  which  had  seemed  to  be  part  of  a  dream  but 
had  been  a  real  thing.  Then  he  began  to  try  his  favor- 
ite experiment.  As  he  often  tried  the  experiment  of 
commanding  his  mind  to  go  to  sleep,  so  he  frequently 
experimented  on  commanding  it  to  work  for  him  —  to 
help  him  to  remember,  to  understand,  and  to  argue 
about  things  clearly. 

"  Reason  this  out  for  me,"  he  said  to  it  now,  quite 
naturally  and  calmly.     "  Show  me  what  it  means." 

What  did  she  come  for?     It  was  certain  that  she 

was  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  be  able,  without  a  reason, 

to  spare  the  time  to  come.     What  was  the  reason? 

She  had  said  she  liked  him.     Then  she  came  because 

189 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

she  liked  him.  If  she  liked  him,  she  came  to  do  some- 
thing which  was  not  unfriendly.  The  only  good  thing 
she  could  do  for  him  was  something  which  would 
help  him  to  get  out  of  the  cellar.  She  had  said  twice 
that  he  was  too  good  for  the  cellar.  If  he  had  been 
awake,  he  would  have  heard  all  she  said  and  have  un- 
derstood what  she  wanted  him  to  do  or  meant  to  do  for 
him.  He  must  not  stop  even  to  think  of  that.  The 
first  words  he  had  heard  —  what  had  they  been? 
They  had  been  less  clear  to  him  than  her  last  because 
he  had  heard  them  only  as  he  was  awakening.  But  he 
thought  he  was  sure  that  they  had  been,  "  You  will 
have  to  search  for  it."  Search  for  it.  For  what? 
He  thought  and  thought.     What  must  he  search  for? 

He  sat  down  on  the  floor  of  the  cellar  and  held 
his  head  in  his  hands,  pressing  his  eyes  so  hard  that 
curious  lights  floated  before  them. 

"  Tell  me!  Tell  me! "  he  said  to  that  part  of  his 
being  which  the  Buddhist  anchorite  had  said  held  all 
knowledge  and  could  tell  a  man  everything  if  he  called 
upon  it  in  the  right  spirit. 

And  in  a  few  minutes,  he  recalled  something  which 
seemed  so  much  a  part  of  his  sleep  that  he  had  not  been 
sure  that  he  had  not  dreamed  it.  The  ringing  sound ! 
He  sprang  up  on  his  feet  with  a  little  gasping  shout. 
The  ringing  sound!  It  had  been  the  ring  of  metal, 
striking  as  it  fell.  Anything  made  of  metal  might 
have  sounded  like  that.  She  had  thrown  something 
made  of  metal  into  the  cellar.  She  had  thrown  it 
190 


A  SOUND  IN  A  DREAM 

through  the  slit  in  the  bricks  near  the  door.  She  liked 
him,  and  said  he  was  too  good  for  his  prison.  She  had 
thrown  to  him  the  only  thing  which  could  set  him  free. 
She  had  thrown  him  the  key  of  the  cellar ! 

For  a  few  minutes  the  feelings  which  surged  through 
him  were  so  full  of  strong  excitement  that  they  set  his 
brain  in  a  whirl.  He  knew  what  his  father  would  say 
—  that  would  not  do.  If  he  was  to  think,  he  must 
hold  himself  still  and  not  let  even  joy  overcome  him. 
The  key  was  in  the  black  little  cellar,  and  he  must  find 
it  in  the  dark.  Even  the  woman  who  liked  him  enough 
to  give  him  a  chance  of  freedom  knew  that  she  must 
not  open  the  door  and  let  him  out.  There  must  be  a 
delay.  He  would  have  to  find  the  key  himself,  and  it 
would  be  sure  to  take  time.  The  chances  were  that 
they  would  be  at  a  safe  enough  distance  before  he  could 
get  out 

"  I  will  kneel  down  and  crawl  on  my  hands  and 
knees,"  he  said.  "  I  will  crawl  back  and  forth  and  go 
over  every  inch  of  the  floor  with  my  hands  until  I  find 
it.     If  I  go  over  every  inch,  I  shall  find  it." 

So  he  kneeled  down  and  began  to  crawl,  and  the  cat 
watched  him  and  purred. 

"  We  shall  get  out,  Puss-cat,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I 
told  you  we  should." 

He  crawled  from  the  door  to  the  wall  at  the  side 

of  the  shelves,  and  then  he  crawled  back  again.     The 

key  might  be  quite  a  small  one,  and  it  was  necessary 

that  he  should  pass  his  hands  over  every  inch,  as  he  had 

191 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

said.  The  difficulty  was  to  be  sure,  in  the  darkness, 
that  he  did  not  miss  an  inch.  Sometimes  he  was  not 
sure  enough,  and  then  he  went  over  the  ground  again. 
He  crawled  backward  and  forward,  and  he  crawled 
forward  and  backward.  He  crawled  crosswise  and 
lengthwise,  he  crawled  diagonally,  and  he  crawled 
round  and  round.  But  he  did  not  find  the  key.  If  he 
had  had  only  a  little  light,  but  he  had  none.  He  was 
so  absorbed  in  his  search  that  he  did  not  know  he  had 
been  engaged  in  it  for  several  hours,  and  that  it  was 
the  middle  of  the  night.  But  at  last  he  realized  that  he 
must'  stop  for  a  rest,  because  his  knees  were  beginning 
to  feel  bruised,  and  the  skin  of  his  hands  was  sore  as  a 
result  of  the  rubbing  on  the  flags.  The  cat  and  her 
kittens  had  gone  to  sleep  and  awakened  again  two  or 
three  times. 

"But  it  is  somewhere!"  he  said  obstinately.  "It 
is  inside  the  cellar.  I  heard  something  fall  which  was 
made  of  metal.  That  was  the  ringing  sound  which 
awakened  me." 

When  he  stood  up,  he  found  his  body  ached  and  he 
was  very  tired.  He  stretched  himself  and  exercised 
his  arms  and  legs. 

"  I  wonder  how  long  I  have  been  crawling  about," 
he  thought.  "  But  the  key  is  in  the  cellar.  It  is  in  the 
cellar." 

He  sat  down  near  the  cat  and  her  family,  and,  laying 
his  arm  on  the  shelf  above  her,  rested  his  head  on  it. 
He  began  to  think  of  another  experiment. 
192 


A  SOUND  IN  A  DREAM 

"  I  am  so  tired,  I  believe  I  shall  go  to  sleep  again. 
'  Thought  which  Knows  All '" —  he  was  quoting 
something  the  hermit  had  said  to  Loristan  in  their  mid- 
night talk  — "  Thought  which  Knows  All !  Show  me 
this  little  thing.     Lead  me  to  it  when  I  awake." 

And  he  did  fall  asleep,  sound  and  fast. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  slept  all  the  rest  of  the 
night.  But  he  did.  When  he  awakened,  it  was  day- 
light in  the  streets,  and  the  milk-carts  were  beginning 
to  jingle  about,  and  the  early  postmen  were  knocking 
big  double-knocks  at  front  doors.  The  cat  may  have 
heard  the  milk-carts,  but  the  actual  fact  was  that  she 
herself  was  hungry  and  wanted  to  go  in  search  of 
food.  Just  as  Marco  lifted  his  head  from  his  arm  and 
sat  up,  she  jumped  down  from  her  shelf  and  went  to 
the  door.  She  had  expected  to  find  it  ajar  as  it  had 
been  before.  When  she  found  it  shut,  she  scratched  at 
it  and  was  disturbed  to  find  this  of  no  use.  Because 
she  knew  Marco  was  in  the  cellar,  she  felt  she  had  a 
friend  who  would  assist  her,  and  she  miaued  appeal- 
ingly. 

This  reminded  Marco  of  the  key. 

"  I  will  when  I  have  found  it,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
inside  the  cellar." 

The  cat  miaued  again,  this  time  very  anxiously  in- 
deed. The  kittens  heard  her  and  began  to  squirm  and 
squeak  piteously. 

"Lead  me  to  this  little  thing,"  said  Marco,  as  if 
193 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

speaking  to  Something  in  the  darkness  about  him,  and 
he  got  up. 

He  put  his  hand  out  toward  the  kittens,  and  it 
touched  something  lying  not  far  from  them.  It  must 
have  been  lying  near  his  elbow  all  night  while  he  slept. 

It  was  the  key!  It  had  fallen  upon  the  shelf,  and 
not  on  the  floor  at  all. 

Marco  picked  it  up  and  then  stood  still  a  moment. 
He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Then  he  found  his  way  to  the  door  and  fumbled  un- 
til he  found  the  keyhole  and  got  the  key  into  it.  Then 
he  turned  it  and  pushed  the  door  open  —  and  the  cat 
ran  out  into  the  passage  before  him. 


194 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  RAT   TO   THE   RESCUE 

MARCO  walked  through  the  passage  and  into  the 
kitchen  part  of  the  basement.  The  doors  were 
all  locked,  and  they  were  solid  doors.  He  ran  up 
the  flagged  steps  and  found  the  door  at  the  top  shut 
and  bolted  also,  and  that  too  was  a  solid  door.  His 
jailers  had  plainly  made  sure  that  it  should  take  time 
enough  for  him  to  make  his  way  into  the  world,  even 
after  he  got  out  of  the  wine-cellar.  The  cat  had  run 
away  to  some  part  of  the  place  where  mice  were  plenti- 
ful. Marco  was  by  this  time  rather  gnawingly  hungry 
himself.  If  he  could  get  into  the  kitchen,  he  might 
find  some  fragments  of  food  left  in  a  cupboard;  but 
there  was  no  moving  the  locked  door.  He  tried  the 
outlet  into  the  area,  but  that  was  immovable.  Then 
he  saw  near  it  a  smaller  door.  It  was  evidently  the 
entrance  to  the  coal-cellar  under  the  pavement.  This 
was  proved  by  the  fact  that  trodden  coal-dust  marked 
the  flagstones,  and  near  it  stood  a  scuttle  with  coal  in 
it. 

This  coal-scuttle  was  the  thing  which  might  help 
him !     Above  the  area  door  was  a  small  window  which 
was  supposed  to  light  the  entry.     He  could  not  reach 
J95 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

it,  and,  if  he  reached  it,  he  could  not  open  it.  He 
could  throw  pieces  of  coal  at  the  glass  and  break  it, 
and  then  he  could  shout  for  help  when  people  passed  by. 
They  might  not  notice  or  understand  where  the  shouts 
came  from  at  first,  but,  if  he  kept  them  up,  some  one's 
attention  would  be  attracted  in  the  end. 

tHe  picked  a  large-sized  solid  piece  of  coal  out  of  the 
heap  in  the  scuttle,  and  threw  it  with  all  his  force 
against  the  grimy  glass.  It  smashed  through  and  left 
a  big  hole.  He  threw  another,  and  the  entire  pane  was 
splintered  and  fell  outside  into  the  area.  Then  he  saw 
it  was  broad  daylight,  and  guessed  that  he  had  been 
shut  up  a  good  many  hours.  There  was  plenty  of  coal 
in  the  scuttle,  and  he  had  a  strong  arm  and  a  good  aim. 
He  smashed  pane  after  pane,  until  only  the  framework 
remained.  When  he  shouted,  there  would  be  nothing 
between  his  voice  and  the  street.  No  one  could  see 
him,  but  if  he  could  do  something  which  would  make 
people  slacken  their  pace  to  listen,  then  he  could  call 
out  that  he  was  in  the  basement  of  the  house  with  the 
broken  window. 

"Hallo!"  he  shouted.  "Hallo!  Hallo!  Hallo! 
Hallo!" 

But  vehicles  were  passing  in  the  street,  and  the 
passers-by  were  absorbed  in  their  own  business.  If 
they  heard  a  sound,  they  did  not  stop  to  inquire  into 
it. 

"  Hallo !     Hallo !     I  am  locked  in ! "  yelled  Marco, 
at  the  topmost  power  of  his  lungs.     "  Hallo !     Hallo !  " 
196 


THE  RAT  TO  THE  RESCUE 

After  half  an  hour's  shouting,  he  began  to  think 
that  he  was  wasting  his  strength. 

"  They  only  think  it  is  a  boy  shouting,"  he  said. 
"  Some  one  will  notice  in  time.  At  night,  when  the 
streets  are  quiet,  I  might  make  a  policeman  hear.  But 
my  father  does  not  know  where  I  am.  He  will  be  try- 
ing to  find  me  —  so  will  Lazarus  —  so  will  The  Rat. 
One  of  them  might  pass  through  this  very  street,  as  I 
did.     What  can  I  do !  " 

A  new  idea  flashed  light  upon  him. 

"  I  will  begin  to  sing  a  Samavian  song,  and  I  will 
sing  it  very  loud.  People  nearly  always  stop  a  mo- 
ment to  listen  to  music  and  find  out  where  it  comes 
from.  And  if  any  of  my  own  people  came  near,  they 
would  stop  at  once  —  and  now  and  then  I  will  shout 
for  help." 

Once  when  they  had  stopped  to  rest  on  Hampstead 
Heath,  he  had  sung  a  valiant  Samavian  song  for  The 
Rat.  The  Rat  had  wanted  to  hear  how  he  would  sing 
when  they  went  on  their  secret  journey.  He  wanted 
him  to  sing  for  the  Squad  some  day,  to  make  the  thing 
seem  real.  The  Rat  had  been  greatly  excited,  and  had 
begged  for  the  song  often.  It  was  a  stirring  martial 
thing  with  a  sort  of  trumpet  call  of  a  chorus.  Thou- 
sands of  Samavians  had  sung  it  together  on  their  way 
to  the  battle-field,  hundreds  of  years  ago. 

He  drew  back  a  step  or  so,  and,  putting  his  hands  on 
his  hips,  began  to  sing,  throwing  his  voice  upward  that 
it  might  pass  through  the  broken  window.  He  had  a 
197 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

splendid  and  vibrant  young  voice,  though  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  its  fine  quality.  Just  now  he  wanted  only  to 
make  it  loud. 

In  the  street  outside  very  few  people  were  passing. 
An  irritable  old  gentleman  who  was  taking  an  invalid 
walk  quite  jumped  with  annoyance  when  the  song  sud- 
denly trumpeted  forth.  Boys  had  no  right  to  yell  in 
that  manner.  He  hurried  his  step  to  get  away  from 
the  sound.  Two  or  three  other  people  glanced  over 
their  shoulders,  but  had  not  time  to  loiter.  A  few 
others  listened  with  pleasure  as  they  drew  near  and 
passed  on. 

"  There 's  a  boy  with  a  fine  voice,"  said  one. 

"What's  he  singing?"  said  his  companion.  "It 
sounds  foreign." 

"  Don't  know,"  was  the  reply  as  they  went  by.  But 
at  last  a  young  man  who  was  a  music-teacher,  going  to 
give  a  lesson,  hesitated  and  looked  about  him.  The 
song  was  very  loud  and  spirited  just  at  this  moment. 
The  music-teacher  could  not  understand  where  it  came 
from,  and  paused  to  find  out.  The  fact  that  he  stopped 
.attracted  the  attention  of  the  next  comer,  who  also 
paused. 

"  Who  's  singing?  "  he  asked.  "  Where  is  he  sing- 
ing?" 

"  I  can't  make  out,"  the  music-teacher  laughed. 
"  Sounds  as  if  it  came  out  of  the  ground." 

And,  because  it  was  queer  that  a  song  should  seem 
to  be  coming  out  of  the  ground,  a  costermonger 
198 


The  Rat  swung  himself  into  the  group.     "Where  is  he!"  "Where  is  he! 
he  cried 


THE  RAT  TO  THE  RESCUE 

stopped,  and  then  a  little  boy,  and  then  a  working- 
woman,  and  then  a  lady. 

There  was  quite  a  little  group  when  another  person 
turned  the  corner  of  the  street.  He  was  a  shabby 
boy  on  crutches,  and  he  had  a  frantic  look  on  his 
face. 

And  Marco  actually  heard,  as  he  drew  near  to  the 
group,  the  tap  —  tap  —  tap  of  crutches. 

"  It  might  be,"  he  thought.     "  It  might  be !  " 

And  he  sang  the  trumpet-call  of  the  chorus  as  if  it 
were  meant  to  reach  the  skies,  and  he  sang  it  again  and 
again.  And  at  the  end  of  it  shouted,  "  Hallo !  Hallo ! 
Hallo!     Hallo!     Hallo!" 

The  Rat  swung  himself  into  the  group  and  looked 
as  if  he  had  gone  crazy.  He  hurled  himself  against 
the  people. 

"  Where  is  he !  Where  is  he ! "  he  cried,  and  he 
poured  out  some  breathless  words ;  it  was  almost  as  if 
he  sobbed  them  out. 

"  We  've  been  looking  for  him  all  night ! "  he 
shouted.  "  Where  is  he !  Marco !  Marco !  No  one 
else  sings  it  but  him.  Marco !  Marco !  "  And  out 
of  the  area,  as  it  seemed,  came  a  shout  of  answer. 

"  Rat !  Rat !  I  'm  here  in  the  cellar  —  locked  in. 
I'm  here!"  and  a  big  piece  of  coal  came  hurtling 
through  the  broken  window  and  fell  crashing  on  the 
area  flags.  The  Rat  got  down  the  steps  into  the  area 
as  if  he  had  not  been  on  crutches  but  on  legs,  and 
banged  on  the  door,  shouting  back : 
199 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Marco !  Marco !  Here  I  am !  Who  locked  you 
in?     How  can  I  get  the  door  open? " 

Marco  was  close  against  the  door  inside.  It  was 
The  Rat !  It  was  The  Rat!  And  he  would  be  in  the 
street  again  in  a  few  minutes. 

"  Call  a  policeman !  "  he  shouted  through  the  key- 
hole. "  The  people  locked  me  in  on  purpose  and  took 
away  the  keys." 

Then  the  group  of  lookers-on  began  to  get  excited 
and  press  against  the  area  railings  and  ask  questions. 
They  could  not  understand  what  had  happened  to  cause 
the  boy  with  the  crutches  to  look  as  if  he  were  crazy 
with  terror  and  relief  at  the  same  time.  And  the  little 
boy  ran  delightedly  to  fetch  a  policeman,  and  found  one 
in  the  next  street,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  persuaded 
him  that  it  was  his  business  to  come  and  get  a  door 
open  in  an  empty  house  where  a  boy  who  was  a  street 
singer  had  got  locked  up  in  a  cellar. 


200 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  IT   IS   A  VERY   BAD   SIGN  " 

THE  policeman  was  not  so  much  excited  as  out 
of  temper.  He  did  not  know  what  Marco  knew 
or  what  The  Rat  knew.  Some  common  lad  had  got 
himself  locked  up  in  a  house,  and  some  one  would  have 
to  go  to  the  landlord  and  get  a  key  from  him.  He  had 
no  intention  of  laying  himself  open  to  the  law  by  break- 
ing into  a  private  house  with  his  truncheon,  as  The  Rat 
expected  him  to  do. 

"  He  got  himself  in  through  some  of  his  larks,  and 
he  '11  have  to  wait  till  he  's  got  out  without  smashing 
locks,"  he  growled,  shaking  the  area  door.  "  How  did 
you  get  in  there?  "  he  shouted. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Marco  to  explain  through  a  key- 
hole that  he  had  come  in  to  help  a  lady  who  had  met 
with  an  accident.  The  policeman  thought  this  mere 
boy's  talk.  As  to  the  rest  of  the  story,  Marco  knew 
that  it  could  not  be  related  at  all  without  saying  things 
which  could  not  be  explained  to  any  one  but  his  father. 
He  quickly  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  let  it  be 
believed  that  he  had  been  locked  in  by  some  queer  acci- 
dent. It  must  be  supposed  that  the  people  had  not  re- 
201 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

remembered,  in  their  haste,  that  he  had  not  yet  left  the 
house. 

When  the  young  clerk  from  the  house  agency  came 
with  the  keys,  he  was  much  disturbed  and  bewildered 
after  he  got  inside. 

"  They  Ve  made  a  bolt  of  it,"  he  said.  "  That  hap- 
pens now  and  then,  but  there 's  something  queer  about 
this.  What  did  they  lock  these  doors  in  the  basement 
for,  and  the  one  on  the  stairs?  What  did  they  say  to 
you  ?  "  he  asked  Marco,  staring  at  him  suspiciously. 

"  They  said  they  were  obliged  to  go  suddenly," 
Marco  answered. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  the  basement  ?  " 

"  The  man  took  me  down." 

"And  left  you  there  and  bolted?  He  must  have 
been  in  a  hurry." 

"  The  lady  said  they  had  not  a  moment's  time." 

"  Her  ankle  must  have  got  well  in  short  order," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  them,"  answered  Marco. 
"  I  had  never  seen  them  before." 

"  The  police  were  after  them,"  the  young  man  said. 
"  That 's  what  I  should  say.  They  paid  three  months' 
rent  in  advance,  and  they  have  only  been  here  two. 
Some  of  these  foreign  spies  lurking  about  London; 
that 's  what  they  were." 

The  Rat  had  not  waited  until  the  keys  arrived.     He 
had  swung  himself  at  his  swiftest  pace  back  through 
202 


"  IT  IS  A  VERY  BAD  SIGN  " 

the  streets  to  No.  7  Philibert  Place.  People  turned 
and  stared  at  his  wild  pale  face  as  he  almost  shot  past 
them. 

He  had  left  himself  barely  breath  enough  to  speak 
with  when  he  reached  the  house  and  banged  on  the 
door  with  his  crutch  to  save  time. 

Both  Loristan  and  Lazarus  came  to  answer. 

The  Rat  leaned  against  the  door  gasping. 

"  He 's  found !  He 's  all  right ! "  he  panted. 
"  Some  one  had  locked  him  in  a  house  and  left  him. 
They  've  sent  for  the  keys.  I  'm  going  back.  Bran- 
don Terrace,  No.  10." 

Loristan  and  Lazarus  exchanged  glances.  Both  of 
them  were  at  the  moment  as  pale  as  The  Rat 

"  Help  him  into  the  house,"  said  Loristan  to  Laza- 
rus. "  He  must  stay  here  and  rest.  We  will  go." 
The  Rat  knew  it  was  an  order.  He  did  not  like  it,  but 
he  obeyed. 

"  This  is  a  bad  sign,  Master/'  said  Lazarus,  as  they 
went  out  together. 

"  It  is  a  very  bad  one,"  answered  Loristan. 

"  God  of  the  Right,  defend  us !  "  Lazarus  groaned. 

"  Amen ! "  said  Loristan.     "  Amen ! " 

The  group  had  become  a  small  crowd  by  the  time 
they  reached  Brandon  Terrace.  Marco  had  not  found 
it  easy  to  leave  the  place  because  he  was  being  ques- 
tioned. Neither  the  policeman  nor  the  agent's  clerk 
seemed  willing  to  relinquish  the  idea  that  he  could  give 
them  some  information  about  the  absconding  pair. 
203 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  entrance  of  Loristan  produced  its  usual  effect. 
The  agent's  clerk  lifted  his  hat,  and  the  policeman  stood 
straight  and  made  salute.  Neither  of  them  realized 
that  the  tall  man's  clothes  were  worn  and  threadbare. 
They  felt  only  that  a  personage  was  before  them,  and 
that  it  was  not  possible  to  question  his  air  of  absolute 
and  serene  authority.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Marco's 
shoulder  and  held  it  there  as  he  spoke.  When  Marco 
looked  up  at  him  and  felt  the  closeness  of  his  touch,  it 
seemed  as  if  it  were  an  embrace  —  as  if  he  had  caught 
him  to  his  breast. 

"  My  boy  knew  nothing  of  these  people,"  he  said. 
"  That  I  can  guarantee.  He  had  seen  neither  of  them 
before.  His  entering  the  house  was  the  result  of  no 
boyish  trick.  He  has  been  shut  up  in  this  place  for 
nearly  twenty- four  hours  and  has  had  no  food.  I  must 
take  him  home.  This  is  my  address."  He  handed  the 
young  man  a  card. 

Then  they  went  home  together,  and  all  the  way  to 
Philibert  Place  Loristan' s  firm  hand  held  closely  to  his 
boy's  shoulder  as  if  he  could  not  endure  to  let  him  go. 
But  on  the  way  they  said  very  little. 

"  Father,"  Marco  said,  rather  hoarsely,  when  they 
first  got  away  from  the  house  in  the  terrace,  "  I  can't 
talk  well  in  the  street.  For  one  thing,  I  am  so  glad  to 
be  with  you  again.  It  seemed  as  if  —  it  might  turn 
out  badly." 

"  Beloved  one,"  Loristan  said  the  words  in  their  own 
204 


"  IT  IS  A  VERY  BAD  SIGN  " 

Samavian,  '*  until  you  are  fed  and  at  rest,  you  shall  not 
talk  at  all." 

Afterward,  when  he  was  himself  again  and  was  al- 
lowed to  tell  his  strange  story,  Marco  found  that  both 
his  father  and  Lazarus  had  at  once  had  suspicions  when 
he  had  not  returned.  They  knew  no  ordinary  event 
could  have  kept  him.  They  were  sure  that  he  must 
have  been  detained  against  his  will,  and  they  were  also 
sure  that,  if  he  had  been  so  detained,  it  could  only  have 
been  for  reasons  they  could  guess  at. 

"  This  was  the  card  that  she  gave  me,"  Marco  said, 
and  he  handed  it  to  Loristan.  "  She  said  you  would 
remember  the  name."  Loristan  looked  at  the  lettering 
with  an  ironic  half-smile. 

"  I  never  heard  it  before,"  he  replied.  "  She  would 
not  send  me  a  name  I  knew.  Probably  I  have  ne  er 
seen  either  of  them.  But  I  know  the  work  they  do. 
They  are  spies  of  the  Maranovitch,  and  suspect  that  I 
know  something  of  the  Lost  Prince.  They  believed 
they  could  terrify  you  into  saying  things  which  would 
be  a  clue.  Men  and  women  of  their  class  will  use  des- 
perate means  to  gain  their  end." 

"Might  they  —  have  left  me  as  they  threatened?" 
Marco  asked  him. 

"  They  would  scarcely  have  dared,  I  think.     Too 
great  a  hue  and  cry  would  have  been  raised  by  the  dis- 
covery of  such  a  crime.     Too  many  detectives  would 
have  been  set  at  work  to  track  them." 
205 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

But  the  look  in  his  father's  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
pressure  of  the  hand  he  stretched  out  to  touch  him, 
made  Marco's  heart  thrill.  He  had  won  a  new  love 
and  trust  from  his  father.  When  they  sat  together 
and  talked  that  night,  they  were  closer  to  each  other's 
souls  than  they  had  ever  been  before. 

They  sat  in  the  firelight,  Marco  upon  the  worn 
hearth-rug,  and  they  talked  about  Samavia  —  about  the 
war  and  its  heart-rending  struggles,  and  about  how 
they  might  end. 

"  Do  you  think  that  some  time  we  might  be  exiles 
no  longer?"  the  boy  said  wistfully.  "Do  you  think 
we  might  go  there  together  —  and  see  it  —  you  and  I, 
Father?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  while.  Loristan  looked 
into  the  sinking  bed  of  red  coal. 

"  For  years  —  for  years  I  have  made  for  my  soul 
that  image,"  he  said  slowly.  "  When  I  think  of  my 
friend  on  the  side  of  the  Himalayan  Mountains,  I  say, 
'The  Thought  which  Thought  the  World  may  give 
us  that  also ! '  " 


206 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  CITIES   AND   FACES  " 

THE  hours  of  Marco's  unexplained  absence  had 
been  terrible  to  Loristan  and  to  Lazarus.  They 
had  reason  for  fears  which  it  was  not  possible  for  them 
to  express.  As  the  night  drew  on,  the  fears  took 
stronger  form.  They  forgot  the  existence  of  The  Rat, 
who  sat  biting  his  nails  in  the  bedroom,  afraid  to  go 
out  lest  he  might  lose  the  chance  of  being  given  some 
errand  to  do  but  also  afraid  to  show  himself  lest  he 
should  seem  in  the  way. 

"  I  '11  stay  upstairs,"  he  had  said  to  Lazarus.  "  If 
you  just  whistle,  I  '11  come." 

The  anguish  he  passed  through  as  the  day  went  by 
and  Lazarus  went  out  and  came  in  and  he  himself  re- 
ceived no  orders,  could  not  have  been  expressed  in  any 
ordinary  words.  He  writhed  in  his  chair,  he  bit  his 
nails  to  the  quick,  he  wrought  himself  into  a  frenzy  of 
misery  and  terror  by  recalling  one  by  one  all  the  crimes 
his  knowledge  of  London  police-courts  supplied  him 
with.  He  was  doing  nothing,  yet  he  dare  not  leave  his 
post.  It  was  his  post  after  all,  though  they  had  not 
given  it  to  him.     He  must  do  something. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Loristan  opened  the  door 
207 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

of  the  back  sitting-room,  because  he  knew  he  must  at 
least  go  upstairs  and  throw  himself  upon  his  bed  even 
if  he  could  not  sleep. 

He  started  back  as  the  door  opened.  The  Rat  was 
sitting  huddled  on  the  floor  near  it  with  his  back  against 
the  wall.  He  had  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand  and  his 
twisted  face  was  a  weird  thing  to  see. 

"  Why  are  you  here?  "  Loristan  asked. 

"  I  've  been  here  three  hours,  sir.  I  knew  you  'd 
have  to  come  out  sometime  and  I  thought  you  'd  let  me 
speak  to  you.     Will  you  —  will  you  ?  " 

"  Come  into  the  room,"  said  Loristan.  "  I  will  listen 
to  anything  you  want  to  say.  What  have  you  been 
drawing  on  that  paper?"  as  The  Rat  got  up  in  the 
wonderful  way  he  had  taught  himself.  The  paper  was 
covered  with  lines  which  showed  it  to  be  another  of  his 
plans. 

"  Please  look  at  it,"  he  begged.  "  I  dare  n't  go  out 
lest  you  might  want  to  send  me  somewhere.  I  dare  n't 
sit  doing  nothing.  I  began  remembering  and  thinking 
things  out.  I  put  down  all  the  streets  and  squares  he 
might  have  walked  through  on  his  way  home.  I  've 
not  missed  one.  If  you'll  let  me  start  out  and  walk 
through  every  one  of  them  and  talk  to  the  policemen  on 
the  beat  and  look  at  the  houses  —  and  think  out  things 
and  work  at  them  —  I  '11  not  miss  an  inch  —  I  '11  not 
miss  a  brick  or  a  flagstone  —  I  '11  — "  His  voice  had  a 
hard  sound  but  it  shook,  and  he  himself  shook. 

Loristan  touched  his  arm  gently. 
208 


"  CITIES  AND  FACES  " 

"  You  are  a  good  comrade,"  he  said.  "  It  is  well  for 
us  that  you  are  here.  You  have  thought  of  a  good 
thing." 

"  May  I  go  now?  "  said  The  Rat. 

"  This  moment,  if  you  are  ready,"  was  the  answer. 
The  Rat  swung  himself  to  the  door. 

Loristan  said  to  him  a  thing  which  was  like  the  sud- 
den lighting  of  a  great  light  in  the  very  center  of  his 
being. 

"  You  are  one  of  us.  Now  that  I  know  you  are  do- 
ing this  I  may  even  sleep.  You  are  one  of  us."  And 
it  was  because  he  was  following  this  plan  that  The  Rat 
had  turned  into  Brandon  Terrace  and  heard  the  Sama- 
vian  song  ringing  out  from  the  locked  basement  of 
Number  10. 

"  Yes,  he  is  one  of  us,"  Loristan  said,  when  he  told 
this  part  of  the  story  to  Marco  as  they  sat  by  the  fire. 
"  I  had  not  been  sure  before.  I  wanted  to  be  very  sure. 
Last  night  I  saw  into  the  depths  of  him  and  knew.  He 
may  be  trusted." 

From  that  day  The  Rat  held  a  new  place.  Lazarus 
himself,  strangely  enough,  did  not  resent  his  holding 
it.  The  boy  was  allowed  to  be  near  Loristan  as  he  had 
never  dared  to  hope  to  be  near.  It  was  not  merely  that 
he  was  allowed  to  serve  him  in  many  ways,  but  he  was 
taken  into  the  intimacy  which  had  before  enclosed  only 
the  three.  Loristan  talked  to  him  as  he  talked  to 
Marco,  drawing  him  within  the  circle  which  held  so 
much  that  was  comprehended  without  speech.  The 
209 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Rat  knew  that  he  was  being  trained  and  observed  and 
he  realized  it  with  exaltation.  His  idol  had  said  that 
he  was  "  one  of  them  "  and  he  was  watching  and  put- 
ting him  to  tests  so  that  he  might  find  out  how  much  he 
was  one  of  them.  And  he  was  doing  it  for  some  grave 
reason  of  his  own.  This  thought  possessed  The  Rat's 
whole  mind.  Perhaps  he  was  wondering  if  he  should 
find  out  that  he  was  to  be  trusted,  as  a  rock  is  to  be 
trusted.  That  he  should  even  think  that  perhaps  he 
might  find  that  he  was  like  a  rock,  was  inspiration 
enough. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  one  night  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether, because  The  Rat  had  been  copying  a  road-map. 
His  voice  was  very  low  — "  do  you  think  that  —  some- 
time —  you  could  trust  me  as  you  trust  Marco  ?  Could 
it  ever  be  like  that  —  ever  ?  " 

"  The  time  has  come,"  and  Loristan's  voice  was 
almost  as  low  as  his  own,  though  strong  and  deep  feel- 
ing underlay  its  quiet  — "  the  time  has  come  when  I 
can  trust  you  with  Marco  —  to  be  his  companion  —  to 
care  for  him,  to  stand  by  his  side  at  any  moment.  And 
Marco  is  —  Marco  is  my  son."  That  was  enough  to 
uplift  The  Rat  to  the  skies.  But  there  was  more  to 
follow. 

"  It  may  not  be  long  before  it  may  be  his  part  to 
do  work  in  which  he  will  need  a  comrade  who  can  be 
trusted  —  as  a  rock  can  be  trusted." 

He  had  said  the  very  words  The  Rat's  own  mind 
had  given  to  him. 


"  CITIES  AND  FACES  " 

"A  Rock!  A  Rock!"  the  boy  broke  out.  "Let 
me  show  you,  sir.  Send  me  with  him  for  a  servant. 
The  crutches  are  nothing.  You  've  seen  that  they  're 
as  good  as  legs,  have  n't  you  ?     I  've  trained  myself." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  dear  lad."  Marco  had  told  him 
all  of  it.  He  gave  him  a  gracious  smile  which  seemed 
as  if  it  held  a  sort  of  fine  secret.  "  You  shall  go  as 
his  Aide-de-camp.     It  shall  be  part  of  the  game." 

He  had  always  encouraged  "  the  game,"  and  during 
the  last  weeks  had  even  found  time  to  help  them  in  their 
plannings  for  the  mysterious  journey  of  the  Secret 
Two.  He  had  been  so  interested  that  once  or  twice 
he  had  called  on  Lazarus  as  an  old  soldier  and  Sama- 
vian  to  give  his  opinions  of  certain  routes  —  and  of  the 
customs  and  habits  of  people  in  towns  and  villages 
by  the  way.  Here  they  would  find  simple  pastoral  folk 
who  danced,  sang  after  their  day's  work,  and  who 
would  tell  all  they  knew;  here  they  would  find  those 
who  served  or  feared  the  Maranovitch  and  who  would 
not  talk  at  all.  In  one  place  they  would  meet  with  hos- 
pitality, in  another  with  unfriendly  suspicion  of  all 
strangers.  Through  talk  and  stories  The  Rat  began 
to  know  the  country  almost  as  Marco  knew  it.  That 
was  part  of  the  game  too  —  because  it  was  always  "  the 
game,"  they  called  it.  Another  part  was  The  Rat's 
training  of  his  memory,  and  bringing  home  his  proofs 
of  advance  at  night  when  he  returned  from  his  walk 
and  could  describe,  or  recite,  or  roughly  sketch  all  he 
had  seen  in  his  passage  from  one  place  to  another. 

211 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Marco's  part  was  to  recall  and  sketch  faces.  Lori- 
stan  one  night  gave  him  a  number  of  photographs  of 
people  to  commit  to  memory.  Under  each  face  was 
written  the  name  of  a  place. 

"  Learn  these  faces,"  he  said,  "  until  you  would  know 
each  one  of  them  at  once  wheresoever  you  met  it.  Fix 
them  upon  your  mind,  so  that  it  will  be  impossible  for 
you  to  forget  them.  You  must  be  able  to  sketch  any 
one  of  them  and  recall  the  city  or  town  or  neighborhood 
connected  with  it." 

Even  this  was  still  called  "the  game,"  but  Marco 
began  to  know  in  his  secret  heart  that  it  was  so  much 
more,  that  his  hand  sometimes  trembled  with  excite- 
ment as  he  made  his  sketches  over  and  over  again.  To 
make  each  one  many  times  was  the  best  way  to  imbed 
it  in  his  memory.  The  Rat  knew,  too,  though  he  had 
no  reason  for  knowing,  but  mere  instinct.  He  used  to 
lie  awake  in  the  night  and  think  it  over  and  remember 
what  Loristan  had  said  of  the  time  coming  when  Marco 
might  need  a  comrade  in  his  work.  What  was  his 
work  to  be?  It  was  to  be  something  like  "  the  game." 
And  they  were  being  prepared  for  it.  And  though 
Marco  often  lay  awake  on  his  bed  when  The  Rat  lay 
awake  on  his  sofa,  neither  boy  spoke  to  the  other  of  the 
thing  his  mind  dwelt  on.  And  Marco  worked  as  he 
had  never  worked  before.  The  game  was  very  excit- 
ing when  he  could  prove  his  prowess.  The  four  gath- 
ered together  at  night  in  the  back  sitting-room.  Laza- 
rus was  obliged  to  be  with  them  because  a  second  judge 


"  CITIES  AND  FACES  " 

was  needed.  Loristan  would  mention  the  name  of  a 
place,  perhaps  a  street  in  Paris  or  a  hotel  in  Vienna,  and 
Marco  would  at  once  make  a  rapid  sketch  of  the  face 
under  whose  photograph  the  name  of  the  locality  had 
been  written.  It  was  not  long  before  he  could  begin 
his  sketch  without  more  than  a  moment's  hesitation. 
And  yet  even  when  this  had  become  the  case,  they  still 
played  the  game  night  after  night.  There  was  a  great 
hotel  near  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  in  Paris,  of  which 
Marco  felt  he  should  never  hear  the  name  during  all  his 
life  without  there  starting  up  before  his  mental  vision 
a  tall  woman  with  fierce  black  eyes  and  a  delicate  high- 
bridged  nose  across  which  the  strong  eyebrows  almost 
met.  In  Vienna  there  was  a  palace  which  would  al- 
ways bring  back  at  once  a  pale  cold-faced  man  with  a 
heavy  blonde  lock  which  fell  over  his  forehead.  A  cer- 
tain street  in  Munich  meant  a  stout  genial  old  aristo- 
crat with  a  sly  smile;  a  village  in  Bavaria,  a  peasant 
with  a  vacant  and  simple  countenance.  A  curled  and 
smoothed  man  who  looked  like  a  hair-dresser  brought 
up  a  place  in  an  Austrian  mountain  town.  He  knew 
them  all  as  he  knew  his  own  face  and  No.  7  Philibert 
Place. 

But  still  night  after  night  the  game  was  played. 

Then  came  a  night  when,  out  of  a  deep  sleep,  he 
was  awakened  by  Lazarus  touching  him.  He  had  so 
long  been  secretly  ready  to  answer  any  call  that  he  sat 
up  straight  in  bed  at  the  first  touch. 

"  Dress  quickly  and  come  down  stairs,"  Lazarus 
213 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

said.     "  The  Prince  is  here  and  wishes  to  speak  with 
you." 

Marco  made  no  answer  but  got  out  of  bed  and  began 
to  slip  on  his  clothes. 

Lazarus  touched  The  Rat. 

The  Rat  was  as  ready  as  Marco  and  sat  upright  as  he 
had  done. 

"  Come  down  with  the  young  Master,"  he  com- 
manded. "  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  be  seen  and 
spoken  to."  And  having  given  the  order  he  went 
away. 

No  one  heard  the  shoeless  feet  of  the  two  boys  as 
they  stole  down  the  stairs. 

An  elderly  man  in  ordinary  clothes,  but  with  an 
unmistakable  face,  was  sitting  quietly  talking  to 
Loristan  who  with  a  gesture  called  both  forward. 

"  The  Prince  has  been  much  interested  in  what  I 
have  told  him  of  your  game,"  he  said  in  his  lowest 
voice.  "  He  wishes  to  see  you  make  your  sketches, 
Marco." 

Marco  looked  very  straight  into  the  Prince's  eyes 
which  were  fixed  intently  on  him  as  he  made  his 
bow. 

"  His  Highness  does  me  honor,"  he  said,  as  his 
father  might  have  said  it.  He  went  to  the  table  at 
once  and  took  from  a  drawer  his  pencils  and  pieces  of 
cardboard. 

"  I  should  know  he  was  your  son  and  a  Samavian," 
the  Prince  remarked. 

214 


"  CITIES  AND  FACES  " 

Then  his  keen  and  deep-set  eyes  turned  themselves 
on  the  boy  with  the  crutches. 

"  This,"  said  Loristan,  "  is  the  one  who  calls  himself 
The  Rat.     He  is  one  of  us." 

The  Rat  saluted. 

"  Please  tell  him,  sir,"  he  whispered,  "  that  the 
crutches  don't  matter." 

"  He  has  trained  himself  to  an  extraordinary  ac- 
tivity," Loristan  said.     "  He  can  do  anything." 

The  keen  eyes  were  still  taking  The  Rat  in. 

"  They  are  an  advantage,"  said  the  Prince  at  last. 

Lazarus  had  nailed  together  a  light,  rough  easel 
which  Marco  used  in  making  his  sketches  when  the 
game  was  played.  Lazarus  was  standing  in  state  at 
the  door,  and  he  came  forward,  brought  the  easel  from 
its  corner,  and  arranged  the  necessary  drawing  ma- 
terials upon  it. 

Marco  stood  near  it  and  waited  the  pleasure  of  his 
father  and  his  visitor.  They  were  speaking  together  in 
low  tones  and  he  waited  several  minutes.  What  The 
Rat  noticed  was  what  he  had  noticed  before  —  that  the 
big  boy  could  stand  still  in  perfect  ease  and  silence. 
It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  say  things  or  to  ask 
questions  —  to  look  at  people  as  if  he  felt  restless  if 
they  did  not  speak  to  or  notice  him.  He  did  not  seem 
to  require  notice,  and  The  Rat  felt  vaguely  that,  young 
as  he  was,  this  very  freedom  from  any  anxiety  to  be 
looked  at  or  addressed  made  him  somehow  look  like  a 
great  gentleman. 

215 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Loristan  and  the  Prince  advanced  to  where  he  stood. 

"  L'Hotel  de  Marigny,"  Loristan  said. 

Marco  began  to  sketch  rapidly.  He  began  the  por- 
trait of  the  handsome  woman  with  the  delicate  high- 
bridged  nose  and  the  black  brows  which  almost  met. 
As  he  did  it,  the  Prince  drew  nearer  and  watched  the 
work  over  his  shoulder.  It  did  not  take  very  long  and, 
when  it  was  finished,  the  inspector  turned,  and  after 
giving  Loristan  a  long  and  strange  look,  nodded  twice. 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  thing,"  he  said.  "  In  that  rough 
sketch  she  is  not  to  be  mistaken." 

Loristan  bent  his  head. 

Then  he  mentioned  the  name  of  another  street  in  an- 
other place  —  and  Marco  sketched  again.  This  time 
it  was  the  peasant  with  the  simple  face.  The  Prince 
bowed  again.  Then  Loristan  gave  another  name,  and 
after  that  another  and  another;  and  Marco  did  his 
work  until  it  was  at  an  end,  and  Lazarus  stood  near 
with  a  handful  of  sketches  which  he  had  silently  taken 
charge  of  as  each  was  laid  aside. 

"  You  would  know  these  faces  wheresoever  you  saw 
them?  "  said  the  Prince.  "  If  you  passed  one  in  Bond 
Street  or  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  you  would  recognize 
it  at  once?" 

"  As  I  know  yours,  sir,"  Marco  answered. 

Then  followed  a  number  of  questions.  Loristan 
asked  them  as  he  had  often  asked  them  before.  They 
were  questions  as  to  the  height  and  build  of  the  orig- 
inals of  the  pictures,  of  the  color  of  their  hair  and 
216 


"  CITIES  AND  FACES  " 

eyes,  and  the  order  of  their  complexions.  Marco  an- 
swered them  all.  He  knew  all  but  the  names  of  these 
people,  and  it  was  plainly  not  necessary  that  he  should 
know  them,  as  his  father  had  never  uttered  them. 

After  this  questioning  was  at  an  end  the  Prince 
pointed  to  The  Rat  who  had  leaned  on  his  crutches 
against  the  wall,  his  eyes  fiercely  eager  like  a  ferret's. 

"  And  he?  "  the  Prince  said.     "  What  can  he  do?  " 

"  Let  me  try,"  said  The  Rat.     "  Marco  knows." 

Marco  looked  at  his  father. 

"  May  I  help  him  to  show  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Loristan  answered,  and  then,  as  he  turned  to 
the  Prince,  he  said  again  in  his  low  voice:  "He  is 
one  of  us." 

Then  Marco  began  a  new  form  of  the  game.  He 
held  up  one  of  the  pictured  faces  before  The  Rat,  and 
The  Rat  named  at  once  the  city  and  place  connected 
with  it,  he  detailed  the  color  of  eyes  and  hair,  the 
height,  the  build,  all  the  personal  details  as  Marco  him- 
self had  detailed  them.  To  these  he  added  descriptions 
of  the  cities,  and  points  concerning  the  police  system, 
the  palaces,  the  people.  His  face  twisted  itself,  his 
eyes  burned,  his  voice  shook,  but  he  was  amazing  in 
his  readiness  of  reply  and  his  exactness  of  memory. 

"  I  can't  draw,"  he  said  at  the  end.  "  But  I  can  re- 
member. I  did  n't  want  any  one  to  be  bothered  with 
thinking  I  was  trying  to  learn  it.  So  only  Marco 
knew." 

This  he  said  to  Loristan  with  appeal  in  his  voice. 
217 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  It  was  he  who  invented  '  the  game,'  "  said  Lori- 
stan.     "  I  showed  you  his  strange  maps  and  plans." 

"  It  is  a  good  game,"  the  Prince  answered  in  the 
manner  of  a  man  extraordinarily  interested  and  im- 
pressed.    "  They  know  it  well.     They  can  be  trusted." 

"  No  such  thing  has  ever  been  done  before,"  Loristan 
said.     "  It  is  as  new  as  it  is  daring  and  simple." 

"  Therein  lies  its  safety,"  the  Prince  answered. 

"  Perhaps  only  boyhood,"  said  Loristan,  "  could  have 
dared  to  imagine  it." 

"  The  Prince  thanks  you,"  he  said  after  a  few  more 
words  spoken  aside  to  his  visitor.  "  We  both  thank 
you.     You  may  go  back  to  your  beds." 

And  the  boys  went. 


218 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"  THAT    IS    ONE  !  " 

A  WEEK  had  not  passed  before  Marco  brought  to 
The  Rat  in  their  bedroom  an  envelope  contain- 
ing a  number  of  slips  of  paper  on  each  of  which  was 
written  something. 

"  This  is  another  part  of  the  game,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  Let  us  sit  down  together  by  the  table  and  study 
it." 

They  sat  down  and  examined  what  was  written  on 
the  slips.  At  the  head  of  each  was  the  name  of  one  of 
the  places  with  which  Marco  had  connected  a  face  he 
had  sketched.  Below  were  clear  and  concise  direc- 
tions as  to  how  it  was  to  be  reached  and  the  words  to  be 
said  when  each  individual  was  encountered. 

"  This  person  is  to  be  found  at  his  stall  in  the 
market,"  was  written  of  the  vacant-faced  peasant. 
"  You  will  first  attract  his  attention  by  asking  the  price 
of  something.  When  he  is  looking  at  you,  touch  your 
left  thumb  lightly  with  the  forefinger  of  your  right 
hand.  Then  utter  in  a  low  distinct  tone  the  words 
'The  Lamp  is  lighted.'  That  is  all  you  are  to 
do." 

219 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Sometimes  the  directions  were  not  quite  so  simple, 
but  they  were  all  instructions  of  the  same  order.  The 
originals  of  the  sketches  were  to  be  sought  out  —  al- 
ways with  precaution  which  should  conceal  that  they 
were  being  sought  at  all,  and  always  in  such  a  manner 
as  would  cause  an  encounter  to  appear  to  be  mere 
chance.  Then  certain  words  were  to  be  uttered,  but 
always  without  attracting  the  attention  of  any  by- 
stander or  passer-by. 

The  boys  worked  at  their  task  through  the  entire 
day.  They  concentrated  all  their  powers  upon  it. 
They  wrote  and  re-wrote  —  they  repeated  to  each  other 
what  they  committed  to  memory  as  if  it  were  a  lesson. 
Marco  worked  with  the  greater  ease  and  more  rapidly, 
because  exercise  of  this  order  had  been  his  practice  and 
entertainment  from  his  babyhood.  The  Rat,  how- 
ever, almost  kept  pace  with  him,  as  he  had  been  born 
with  a  phenomenal  memory  and  his  eagerness  and  de- 
sire were  a  fury. 

But  throughout  the  entire  day  neither  of  them  once 
referred  to  what  they  were  doing  as  anything  but  "  the 
game." 

At  night,  it  is  true,  each  found  himself  lying  awake 
and  thinking.  It  was  The  Rat  who  broke  the  silence 
from  his  sofa. 

"  It  is  what  the  messengers  of  the  Secret  Party 
would  be  ordered  to  do  when  they  were  sent  out  to  give 
the  Sign  for  the  Rising,"  he  said.  "  I  made  that  up 
the  first  day  I  invented  the  party,  did  n't  I  ?  " 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 
"  Yes,"  answered  Marco. 

After  a  third  day's  concentration  they  knew  by  heart 
everything  given  to  them  to  learn.  That  night  Loris- 
tan  put  them  through  an  examination. 

"  Can  you  write  these  things  ?  "  he  asked,  after  each 
had  repeated  them  and  emerged  safely  from  all  cross- 
questioning. 

Each  boy  wrote  them  correctly  from  memory. 

"  Write  yours  in  French  —  in  German  —  in  Russian 
—  in  Samavian,"  Loristan  said  to  Marco. 

"  All  you  have  told  me  to  do  and  to  learn  is  part  of 
myself,  Father,"  Marco  said  in  the  end.  "  It  is  part  of 
me,  as  if  it  were  my  hand  or  my  eyes  —  or  my  heart." 

"  I  believe  that  is  true,"  answered  Loristan. 

He  was  pale  that  night  and  there  was  a  shadow  on 
his  face.  His  eyes  held  a  great  longing  as  they  rested 
on  Marco.  It  was  a  yearning  which  had  a  sort  of 
dread  in  it. 

Lazarus  also  did  not  seem  quite  himself.  He  was 
red  instead  of  pale,  and  his  movements  were  uncertain 
and  restless.  He  cleared  his  throat  nervously  at  in- 
tervals and  more  than  once  left  his  chair  as  if  to  look 
for  something. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  Loristan,  standing  near 
Marco,  put  his  arm  round  his  shoulders. 

"  The  Game  " —  he  began,  and  then  was  silent  a  few 
moments  while  Marco  felt  his  arm  tighten  its  hold. 
Both  Marco  and  The  Rat  felt  a  hard  quick  beat  in  their 
221 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

breasts,  and,  because  of  this  and  because  the  pause 
seemed  long,  Marco  spoke. 

"  The  Game  —  yes,  Father  ? "  he  said. 

"  The  Game  is  about  to  give  you  work  to  do  —  both 
of  you,"  Loristan  answered. 

Lazarus  cleared  his  throat  and  walked  to  the  easel  in 
the  corner  of  the  room.  But  he  only  changed  the  posi- 
tion of  a  piece  of  drawing-paper  on  it  and  then  came 
back. 

"  In  two  days  you  are  to  go  to  Paris  —  as  you," 
to  The  Rat,  "  planned  in  the  game." 

"As  I  planned?"  The  Rat  barely  breathed  the 
words. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Loristan.  "  The  instructions  you 
have  learned  you  will  carry  out.  There  is  no  more  to 
be  done  than  to  manage  to  approach  certain  persons 
closely  enough  to  be  able  to  utter  certain  words  to 
them." 

"  Only  two  young  strollers  whom  no  man  could  sus- 
pect," put  in  Lazarus  in  an  astonishingly  rough  and 
shaky  voice.  "  They  could  pass  near  the  Emperor 
himself  without  danger.  The  young  Master — "  his 
voice  became  so  hoarse  that  he  was  obliged  to  clear  it 
loudly  — "  the  young  Master  must  carry  himself  less 
finely.  It  would  be  well  to  shuffle  a  little  and  slouch 
as  if  he  were  of  the  common  people." 

"  Yes,"  said  The  Rat  hastily.     "  He  must  do  that. 
I  can  teach  him.     He  holds  his  head  and  his  shoulders 
like  a  gentleman.     He  must  look  like  a  street  lad." 
222 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 

"  I  will  look  like  one,"  said  Marco,  with  determina- 
tion. 

"  I  will  trust  you  to  remind  him,"  Loristan  said  to 
The  Rat,  and  he  said  it  with  gravity.  "  That  will  be 
your  charge." 

As  he  lay  upon  his  pillow  that  night,  it  seemed  to 
Marco  as  if  a  load  had  lifted  itself  from  his  heart.  It 
was  the  load  of  uncertainty  and  longing.  He  had  so 
long  borne  the  pain  of  feeling  that  he  was  too  young 
to  be  allowed  to  serve  in  any  way.  His  dreams  had 
never  been  wild  ones  —  they  had  in  fact  always  been 
boyish  and  modest,  howsoever  romantic.  But  now  no 
dream  which  could  have  passed  through  his  brain 
would  have  seemed  so  wonderful  as  this  —  that  the 
hour  had  come  —  the  hour  had  come  —  and  that  he, 
Marco,  was  to  be  its  messenger.  He  was  to  do  no 
dramatic  deed  and  be  announced  by  no  flourish  of 
heralds.  No  one  would  know  what  he  did.  What  he 
achieved  could  only  be  attained  if  he  remained  obscure 
and  unknown  and  seemed  to  every  one  only  a  common 
ordinary  boy  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of  impor- 
tant things.  But  his  father  had  given  to  him  a  gift  so 
splendid  that  he  trembled  with  awe  and  joy  as  he 
thought  of  it.  The  Game  had  become  real.  He  and 
The  Rat  were  to  carry  with  them  The  Sign,  and  it 
would  be  like  carrying  a  tiny  lamp  to  set  aflame  lights 
which  would  blaze  from  one  mountain-top  to  another 
until  half  the  world  seemed  on  fire. 

As  he  had  awakened  out  of  his  sleep  when  Lazarus 
223 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

touched  him,  so  he  awakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
again.  But  he  was  not  aroused  by  a  touch.  When  he 
opened  his  eyes  he  knew  it  was  a  look  which  had  pene- 
trated his  sleep  —  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  his  father  who 
was  standing  by  his  side.  In  the  road  outside  there 
was  the  utter  silence  he  had  noticed  the  night  of  the 
Prince's  first  visit  —  the  only  light  was  that  of  the 
lamp  in  the  street,  but  he  could  see  Loristan's  face 
clearly  enough  to  know  that  the  mere  intensity  of  his 
gaze  had  awakened  him.  The  Rat  was  sleeping  pro- 
foundly. Loristan  spoke  in  Samavian  and  under  his 
breath. 

"  Beloved  one,"  he  said.  "  You  are  very  young. 
Because  I  am  your  father  —  just  at  this  hour  I  can 
feel  nothing  else.  I  have  trained  you  for  this  through 
all  the  years  of  your  life.  I  am  proud  of  your  young 
maturity  and  strength  but  —  Beloved  —  you  are  a 
child!     Can  I  do  this  thing!  " 

For  the  moment,  his  face  and  his  voice  were  scarcely 
like  his  own. 

He  kneeled  by  the  bedside,  and,  as  he  did  it,  Marco 
half  sitting  up  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  hard  against 
his  breast. 

"  Father,  I  know ! "  he  cried  under  his  breath  also. 
"  It  is  true.  I  am  a  child  but  am  I  not  a  man  also  ? 
You  yourself  said  it.  I  always  knew  that  you  were 
teaching  me  to  be  one  —  for  some  reason.  It  was  my 
secret  that  I  knew  it.  I  learned  well  because  I  never 
forgot  it.  And  I  learned.  Did  I  not?  " 
224 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 

He  was  so  eager  that  he  looked  more  like  a  boy  than 
ever.  But  his  young  strength  and  courage  were  splen- 
did to  see.  Loristan  knew  him  through  and  through 
and  read  every  boyish  thought  of  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  slowly.  "  You  did  your  part 
—  and  now  if  I  —  drew  back  —  you  would  feel  that  I 
had  failed  you  • —  failed  you." 

"  You !  "  Marco  breathed  it  proudly.  "  You  could 
not  fail  even  the  weakest  thing  in  the  world." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  which  the  two  pairs 
of  eyes  dwelt  on  each  other  with  the  deepest  meaning, 
and  then  Loristan  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  The  end  will  be  all  that  our  hearts  most  wish,"  he 
said.  "To-morrow  you  may  begin  the  new  part  of 
1  the  Game.'     You  may  go  to  Paris." 

When  the  train  which  was  to  meet  the  boat  that 
crossed  from  Dover  to  Calais  steamed  out  of  the  noisy 
Charing  Cross  Station,  it  carried  in  a  third-class  car- 
riage two  shabby  boys.  One  of  them  would  have  been 
a  handsome  lad  if  he  had  not  carried  himself  slouch- 
ingly  and  walked  with  a  street  lad's  careless  shuffling 
gait.  The  other  was  a  cripple  who  moved  slowly,  and 
apparently  with  difficulty,  on  crutches.  There  was 
nothing  remarkable  or  picturesque  enough  about  them 
to  attract  attention.  They  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage and  neither  talked  much  nor  seemed  to  be  par- 
ticularly interested  in  the  journey  or  each  other. 
When  they  went  on  board  the  steamer,  they  were  soon 
225 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

lost  among  the  commoner  passengers  and  in  fact  found 
for  themselves  a  secluded  place  which  was  not  advan- 
tageous enough  to  be  wanted  by  any  one  else. 

"  What  can  such  a  poor-looking  pair  of  lads  be  go- 
ing to  Paris  for?  "  some  one  asked  his  companion. 

"  Not  for  pleasure,  certainly ;  perhaps  to  get  work," 
was  the  casual  answer. 

In  the  evening  they  reached  Paris,  and  Marco  led 
the  way  to  a  small  cafe  in  a  side-street  where  they  got 
some  cheap  food.  In  the  same  side-street  they  found  a 
bed  they  could  share  for  the  night  in  a  tiny  room  over  a 
baker's  shop. 

The  Rat  was  too  much  excited  to  be  ready  to  go  to 
bed  early.  He  begged  Marco  to  guide  him  about  the 
brilliant  streets.  They  went  slowly  along  the  broad 
Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees  under  the  lights  glittering 
among  the  horse-chestnut  trees.  The  Rat's  sharp  eyes 
took  it  all  in  —  the  light  of  the  cafes  among  the  em- 
bowering trees,  the  many  carriages  rolling  by,  the  peo- 
ple who  loitered  and  laughed  or  sat  at  little  tables  drink- 
ing wine  and  listening  to  music,  the  broad  stream  of 
life  which  flowed  on  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  back 
again. 

"  It 's  brighter  and  clearer  than  London,"  he  said  to 
Marco.  "  The  people  look  as  if  they  were  having  more 
fun  than  they  do  in  England." 

The  Place  de  la  Concorde  spreading  its  stately  spaces 
—  a  world  of  illumination,  movement,  and  majestic 
beauty  —  held  him  as  though  by  a  fascination.  He 
226 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 

wanted  to  stand  still  and  stare  at  it,  first  from  one  point 
of  view  and  then  from  another.  It  was  bigger  and 
more  wonderful  than  he  had  been  able  to  picture  it 
when  Marco  had  described  it  to  him  and  told  him  of 
the  part  it  had  played  in  the  days  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion when  the  guillotine  had  stood  in  it  and  the  tumbrils 
had  emptied  themselves  at  the  foot  of  its  steps.  He 
stood  near  the  Obelisk  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

"  I  can  see  it  all  happening,"  he  said  at  last,  and  he 
pulled  Marco  away. 

Before  they  returned  home,  they  found  their  way 
to  a  large  house  which  stood  in  a  courtyard.  In  the 
iron  work  of  the  handsome  gates  which  shut  it  in  was 
wrought  a  gilded  coronet.  The  gates  were  closed  and 
the  house  was  not  brightly  lighted. 

They  walked  past  it  and  round  it  without  speaking, 
but,  when  they  neared  the  entrance  for  the  second  time, 
The  Rat  said  in  a  low  tone : 

"  She  is  five  feet  seven,  has  black  hair,  a  nose  with  a 
high  bridge,  her  eyebrows  are  black  and  almost  meet 
across  it,  she  has  a  pale  olive  skin  and  holds  her  head 
proudly." 

"  That  is  the  one,"  Marco  answered. 

They  were  a  week  in  Paris  and  each  day  passed 
this  big  house.  There  were  certain  hours  when  great 
ladies  were  more  likely  to  go  out  and  come  in  than  they 
were  at  others.  Marco  knew  this,  and  they  managed 
to  be  within  sight  of  the  house  or  to  pass  it  at  these 
hours.  For  two  days  they  saw  no  sign  of  the  person 
227 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

they  wished  to  see,  but  one  morning  the  gates  were 
thrown  open  and  they  saw  flowers  and  palms  being 
taken  in. 

"  She  has  been  away  and  is  coming  back,"  said 
Marco.  The  next  day  they  passed  three  times  —  once 
at  the  hour  when  fashionable  women  drive  out  to  do 
their  shopping,  once  at  the  time  when  afternoon  visit- 
ing is  most  likely  to  begin,  and  once  when  the  streets 
were  brilliant  with  lights  and  the  carriages  had  begun 
to  roll  by  to  dinner-parties  and  theaters. 

Then,  as  they  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the  iron 
gates,  a  carriage  drove  through  them  and  stopped  be- 
fore the  big  door  which  was  thrown  open  by  two  tall 
footmen  in  splendid  livery. 

"  She  is  coming  out,"  said  The  Rat. 

They  would  be  able  to  see  her  plainly  when  she  came, 
because  the  lights  over  the  entrance  were  so  bright. 

Marco  slipped  from  under  his  coat  sleeve  a  carefully 
made  sketch.    He  looked  at  it  and  The  Rat  looked  at  it. 

A  footman  stood  erect  on  each  side  of  the  open  door. 
The  footman  who  sat  with  the  coachman  had  got  down 
and  was  waiting  by  the  carriage.  Marco  and  The  Rat 
glanced  again  with  furtive  haste  at  the  sketch.  A 
handsome  woman  appeared  upon  the  threshold.  She 
paused  and  gave  some  order  to  the  footman  who  stood 
on  the  right.  Then  she  came  out  in  the  full  light  and 
got  into  the  carriage  which  drove  out  of  the  courtyard 
and  quite  near  the  place  where  the  two  boys  waited. 

When  it  was  gone,  Marco  drew  a  long  breath  as  he 
228 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 

tore  the  sketch  into  very  small  pieces  indeed.  He  did 
not  throw  them  away  then  but  put  them  into  his  pocket. 

The  Rat  drew  a  long  breath  also. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  positively. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marco. 

When  they  were  safely  shut  up  in  their  room  over 
the  baker's  shop,  they  discussed  the  chances  of  their 
being  able  to  pass  her  in  such  a  way  as  would  seem  acci- 
dental. Two  common  boys  could  not  enter  the  court- 
yard. There  was  a  back  entrance  for  tradespeople 
and  messengers.  When  she  drove,  she  would  always 
enter  her  carriage  from  the  same  place.  Unless  she 
sometimes  walked,  they  could  not  approach  her.  What 
should  be  done  ?  The  thing  was  difficult.  After  they 
had  talked  some  time,  The  Rat  sat  and  gnawed  his 
nails. 

"  To-morrow  afternoon,"  he  broke  out  at  last, 
"  we  '11  watch  and  see  if  her  carriage  drives  in  for  her 
—  then,  when  she  comes  to  the  door,  I  '11  go  in  and  be- 
gin to  beg.  The  servant  will  think  I  'm  a  foreigner 
and  don't  know  what  I  'm  doing.  You  can  come  after 
me  to  tell  me  to  come  away,  because  you  know  better 
than  I  do  that  I  shall  be  ordered  out.  She  may  be  a 
good-natured  woman  and  listen  to  us  —  and  you  might 
get  near  her." 

"  We  might  try  it,"  Marco  answered.  "  It  might 
work.     We  will  try  it." 

The  Rat  never  failed  to  treat  him  as  his  leader.  He 
had  begged  Loristan  to  let  him  come  with  Marco  as 
229 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

his  servant,  and  his  servant  he  had  been  more  than 
willing  to  be.  When  Loristan  had  said  he  should  be 
his  aide-de-camp,  he  had  felt  his  trust  lifted  to  a  mili- 
tary dignity  which  uplifted  him  with  it.  As  his  aide- 
de-camp  he  must  serve  him,  watch  him,  obey  his  light- 
est wish,  make  everything  easy  for  him.  Sometimes, 
Marco  was  troubled  by  the  way  in  which  he  insisted 
on  serving  him,  this  queer,  once  dictatorial  and  can- 
tankerous lad  who  had  begun  by  throwing  stones  at 
him. 

"  You  must  not  wait  on  me,"  he  said  to  him.  "  I 
must  wait  upon  myself." 

The  Rat  rather  flushed. 

"  He  told  me  that  he  would  let  me  come  with  you 
as  your  Aide-de-camp,"  he  said.  "It  —  it's  part  of 
the  game.  It  makes  things  easier  if  we  keep  up  the 
game." 

It  would  have  attracted  attention  if  they  had  spent 
too  much  time  in  the  vicinity  of  the  big  house.  So  it 
happened  that  the  next  afternoon  the  great  lady  evi- 
dently drove  out  at  an  hour  when  they  were  not  watch- 
ing for  her.  They  were  on  their  way  to  try  if  they 
could  carry  out  their  plan,  when,  as  they  walked  to- 
gether along  the  Rue  Royale,  The  Rat  suddenly  touched 
Marco's  elbow. 

"  The  carriage  stands  before  the  shop  with  lace  in 
the  windows,"  he  whispered  hurriedly. 

Marco  saw  and  recognized  it  at  once.  The  owner 
had  evidently  gone  into  the  shop  to  buy  something. 
230 


"THAT  IS  ONE!" 

This  was  a  better  chance  than  they  had  hoped  for,  and, 
when  they  approached  the  carriage  itself,  they  saw  that 
there  was  another  point  in  their  favor.  Inside  were  no 
less  than  three  beautiful  little  Pekingese  spaniels  that 
looked  exactly  alike.  They  were  all  trying  to  look 
out  of  the  window  and  were  pushing  against  each 
other.  They  were  so  perfect  and  so  pretty  that  few 
people  passed  by  without  looking  at  them.  What  bet- 
ter excuse  could  two  boys  have  for  lingering  about  a 
place  ? 

They  stopped  and,  standing  a  little  distance  away, 
began  to  look  at  and  discuss  them  and  laugh  at  their 
excited  little  antics.  Through  the  shop-window  Marco 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  great  lady. 

"  She  does  not  look  much  interested.  She  won't 
stay  long,"  he  whispered,  and  added  aloud,  "  that  little 
one  is  the  master.  See  how  he  pushes  the  others  aside ! 
He  is  stronger  than  the  other  two,  though  he  is  so 
small." 

"  He  can  snap,  too,"  said  The  Rat. 

"  She  is  coming  now,"  warned  Marco,  and  then 
laughed  aloud  as  if  at  the  Pekingese,  which,  catching 
sight  of  their  mistress  at  the  shop-door,  began  to  leap 
and  yelp  for  joy. 

Their  mistress  herself  smiled,  and  was  smiling  as 
Marco  drew  near  her. 

"May  we  look  at  them,  Madame?"  he  said  in 
French,  and,  as  she  made  an  amiable  gesture  of 
acquiescence  and  moved  toward  the  carriage  with  him, 
231 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

he  spoke  a  few  words,  very  low  but  very  distinctly, 
in  Russian. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted,"  he  said. 

The  Rat  was  looking  at  her  keenly,  but  he  did  not  see 
her  face  change  at  all.  What  he  noticed  most  through- 
out their  journey  was  that  each  person  to  whom  they 
gave  the  Sign  had  complete  control  over  his  or  her 
countenance,  if  there  were  bystanders,  and  never  be- 
trayed by  any  change  of  expression  that  the  words 
meant  anything  unusual. 

The  great  lady  merely  went  on  smiling,  and  spoke 
only  of  the  dogs,  allowing  Marco  and  himself  to  look 
at  them  through  the  window  of  the  carriage  as  the 
footman  opened  the  door  for  her  to  enter. 

"  They  are  beautiful  little  creatures,"  Marco  said, 
lifting  his  cap,  and,  as  the  footman  turned  away,  he 
uttered  his  few  Russian  words  once  more  and  moved 
off  without  even  glancing  at  the  lady  again. 

"  That  is  one!  "  he  said  to  The  Rat  that  night  before 
they  went  to  sleep,  and  with  a  match  he  burned  the 
scraps  of  the  sketch  he  had  torn  and  put  into  his  pocket. 


232 


As  she  moved  toward  the  carriage  with  him,  he  spoke  a  few  words 
in  Russian 


CHAPTER  XX 

MARCO   GOES   TO   THE   OPERA 

THEIR  next  journey  was  to  Munich,  but  the  night 
before  they  left  Paris  an  unexpected  thing  hap- 
pened. 

To  reach  the  narrow  staircase  which  led  to  their 
bedroom  it  was  necessary  to  pass  through  the  baker's 
shop  itself.  The  baker's  wife  was  a  friendly  woman 
who  liked  the  two  boy  lodgers  who  were  so  quiet  and 
gave  no  trouble.  More  than  once  she  had  given  them  a 
hot  roll  or  so  or  a  freshly  baked  little  tartlet  with  fruit 
in  the  center.  When  Marco  came  in  this  evening,  she 
greeted  him  with  a  nod  and  handed  him  a  small  parcel 
as  he  passed  through. 

"This  was  left  for  you  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 
"  I  see  you  are  making  purchases  for  your  journey. 
My  man  and  I  are  very  sorry  you  are  going." 

"  Thank  you,  Madame.  We  also  are  sorry,"  Marco 
answered,  taking  the  parcel.  "  They  are  not  large 
purchases,  you  see,"  smiling. 

But  neither  he  nor  The  Rat  had  bought  anything  at 
all,  though  the  ordinary-looking  little  package  was 
plainly  addressed  to  him  and  bore  the  name  of  one  of 
233 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  big  cheap  shops.  It  felt  as  if  it  contained  some- 
thing soft. 

When  he  reached  their  bedroom,  The  Rat  was  gaz- 
ing out  of  the  window  watching  every  living  thing 
which  passed  in  the  street  below.  He  who  had  never 
seen  anything  but  London  was  absorbed  by  the  spell  of 
Paris  and  was  learning  it  by  heart. 

"  Something  has  been  sent  to  us.  Look  at  this," 
said  Marco. 

The  Rat  was  at  his  side  at  once.  "  What  is  it  ? 
Where  did  it  come  from?  " 

They  opened  the  package  and  at  first  sight  saw  only 
several  pairs  of  quite  common  woolen  socks.  As 
Marco  took  up  the  sock  in  the  middle  of  the  parcel,  he 
felt  that  there  was  something  inside  it  —  something 
laid  flat  and  carefully.  He  put  his  hand  in  and  drew 
out  a  number  of  five- franc  notes  —  not  new  ones,  be- 
cause new  ones  would  have  betrayed  themselves  by 
crackling.  These  were  old  enough  to  be  soft.  But 
there  were  enough  of  them  to  amount  to  a  substantial 
sum. 

"  It  is  in  small  notes  because  poor  boys  would  have 
only  small  ones.  No  one  will  be  surprised  when  we 
change  these,"  The  Rat  said. 

Each  of  them  believed  the  package  had  been  sent  by 
the  great  lady,  but  it  had  been  done  so  carefully  that 
not  the  slightest  clue  was  furnished. 

To  The  Rat,  part  of  the  deep  excitement  of  "the 
Game  "  was  the  working  out  of  the  plans  and  methods 
234 


MARCO  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

of  each  person  concerned.  He  could  not  have  slept 
without  working  out  some  scheme  which  might  have 
been  used  in  this  case.  It  thrilled  him  to  contemplate 
the  difficulties  the  great  lady  might  have  found  herself 
obliged  to  overcome. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  after  thinking  it  over  for  some 
time,  "  she  went  to  a  big  common  shop  dressed  as  if 
she  were  an  ordinary  woman  and  bought  the  socks  and 
pretended  she  was  going  to  carry  them  home  herself. 
She  would  do  that  so  that  she  could  take  them  into 
some  corner  and  slip  the  money  in.  Then,  as  she 
wanted  to  have  them  sent  from  the  shop,  perhaps  she 
bought  some  other  things  and  asked  the  people  to  de- 
liver the  packages  to  different  places.  The  socks  were 
sent  to  us  and  the  other  things  to  some  one  else.  She 
would  go  to  a  shop  where  no  one  knew  her  and  no  one 
would  expect  to  see  her  and  she  would  wear  clothes 
which  looked  neither  rich  nor  too  poor." 

He  created  the  whole  episode  with  all  its  details  and 
explained  them  to  Marco.  It  fascinated  him  for  the 
entire  evening  and  he  felt  relieved  after  it  and  slept 
well. 

Even  before  they  had  left  London,  certain  news- 
papers had  swept  out  of  existence  the  story  of  the 
descendant  of  the  Lost  Prince.  This  had  been  done  by 
derision  and  light  handling  —  by  treating  it  as  a 
romantic  legend. 

At  first,  The  Rat  had  resented  this  bitterly,  but  one 
day  at  a  meal,  when  he  had  been  producing  arguments 
235 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

to  prove  that  the  story  must  be  a  true  one,  Loristan 
somehow  checked  him  by  his  own  silence. 

"If  there  is  such  a  man,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  it 
is  well  for  him  that  his  existence  should  not  be  believed 
in  —  for  some  time  at  least" 

The  Rat  came  to  a  dead  stop.  He  felt  hot  for  a 
moment  and  then  felt  cold.  He  saw  a  new  idea  all  at 
once.     He  had  been  making  a  mistake  in  tactics. 

No  more  was  said  but,  when  they  were  alone  after- 
ward, he  poured  himself  forth  to  Marco. 

"  I  was  a  fool !  "  he  cried  out.  "  Why  could  n't  I 
see  it  for  myself !  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  believe  has 
been  done?  There  is  some  one  who  has  influence  in 
England  and  who  is  a  friend  to  Samavia.  They've 
got  the  newspapers  to  make  fun  of  the  story  so  that  it 
won't  be  believed.  If  it  was  believed,  both  the 
Iarovitch  and  the  Maranovitch  would  be  on  the  look- 
out, and  the  Secret  Party  would  lose  their  chances. 
What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  think  of  it !  There 's  some 
one  watching  and  working  here  who  is  a  friend  to 
Samavia." 

"  But  there  is  some  one  in  Samavia  who  has  begun 
to  suspect  that  it  might  be  true,"  Marco  answered. 
"If  there  were  not,  I  should  not  have  been  shut  in  the 
cellar.  Some  one  thought  my  father  knew  something. 
The  spies  had  orders  to  find  out  what  it  was." 

"  Yes.  Yes.  That 's  true,  too ! "  The  Rat  an- 
swered anxiously.  "We  shall  have  to  be  very  care- 
ful." 

236 


MARCO  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

In  the  lining  of  the  sleeve  of  Marco's  coat  there  was 
a  slit  into  which  he  could  slip  any  small  thing  he  wished 
to  conceal  and  also  wished  to  be  able  to  reach  without 
trouble.  In  this  he  had  carried  the  sketch  of  the  lady 
which  he  had  torn  up  in  Paris.  When  they  walked  in 
the  streets  of  Munich,  the  morning  after  their  arrival, 
he  carried  still  another  sketch.  It  was  the  one  pictur- 
ing the  genial-looking  old  aristocrat  with  the  sly 
smile. 

One  of  the  things  they  had  learned  about  this  one 
was  that  his  chief  characteristic  was  his  passion  for 
music.  He  was  a  patron  of  musicians  and  he  spent 
much  time  in  Munich  because  he  loved  its  mu- 
sical atmosphere  and  the  earnestness  of  its  opera- 
goers. 

"  The  military  band  plays  in  the  Feldherrn-halle  at 
midday.  When  something  very  good  is  being  played, 
sometimes  people  stop  their  carriages  so  that  they  can 
listen.     We  will  go  there,"  said  Marco. 

"  It 's  a  chance/'  said  The  Rat.  "  We  must  n't  lose 
anything  like  a  chance." 

The  day  was  brilliant  and  sunny,  the  people  passing 
through  the  streets  looked  comfortable  and  homely, 
the  mixture  of  old  streets  and  modern  ones,  of  ancient 
corners  and  shops  and  houses  of  the  day  was  pictur- 
esque and  cheerful.  The  Rat  swinging  through  the 
crowd  on  his  crutches  was  full  of  interest  and  exhilara- 
tion. He  had  begun  to  grow,  and  the  change  in  his 
face  and  expression  which  had  begun  in  London  had 
237 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

become  more  noticeable.  He  had  been  given  his 
"  place,"  and  a  work  to  do  which  entitled  him  to  hold 
it. 

No  one  could  have  suspected  them  of  carrying  a 
strange  and  vital  secret  with  them  as  they  strolled  along 
together.  They  seemed  only  two  ordinary  boys  who 
looked  in  at  shop  windows  and  talked  over  their  con- 
tents, and  who  loitered  with  upturned  faces  in  the 
Marien-Platz  before  the  ornate  Gothic  Rathaus  to  hear 
the  eleven  o'clock  chimes  play  and  see  the  painted 
figures  of  the  King  and  Queen  watch  from  their  bal- 
cony the  passing  before  them  of  the  automatic  tourna- 
ment procession  with  its  trumpeters  and  tilting  knights. 
When  the  show  was  over  and  the  automatic  cock  broke 
forth  into  his  lusty  farewell  crow,  they  laughed  just 
as  any  other  boys  would  have  laughed.  Sometimes  it 
would  have  been  easy  for  The  Rat  to  forget  that  there 
was  anything  graver  in  the  world  than  the  new  places 
and  new  wonders  he  was  seeing,  as  if  he  were  a  wan- 
dering minstrel  in  a  story. 

But  in  Samavia  bloody  battles  were  being  fought, 
and  bloody  plans  were  being  wrought  out,  and  in 
anguished  anxiety  the  Secret  Party  and  the  Forgers  of 
the  Sword  waited  breathless  for  the  Sign  for  which 
they  had  waited  so  long.  And  inside  the  lining  of 
Marco's  coat  was  hidden  the  sketched  face,  as  the  two 
unnoticed  lads  made  their  way  to  the  Feldherrn-halle 
to  hear  the  band  play  and  see  who  might  chance  to  be 
among  the  audience. 

238 


MARCO  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

Because  the  day  was  sunny,  and  also  because  the 
band  was  playing  a  specially  fine  programme,  the  crowd 
in  the  square  was  larger  than  usual.  Several  vehicles 
had  stopped,  and  among  them  were  one  or  two  which 
were  not  merely  hired  cabs  but  were  the  carriages  of 
private  persons. 

One  of  them  had  evidently  arrived  early,  as  it  was 
drawn  up  in  a  good  position  when  the  boys  reached  the 
corner.  It  was  a  big  open  carriage  and  a  grand  one, 
luxuriously  upholstered  in  green.  The  footman  and 
coachman  wore  green  and  silver  liveries  and  seemed 
to  know  that  people  were  looking  at  them  and  their 
master.  He  was  a  stout,  genial-looking  old  aristocrat 
with  a  sly  smile,  though,  as  he  listened  to  the  music,  it 
almost  forgot  to  be  sly.  In  the  carriage  with  him  were 
a  young  officer  and  a  little  boy,  and  they  also  listened 
attentively.  Standing  near  the  carriage  door  were 
several  people  who  were  plainly  friends  or  acquaint- 
ances, as  they  occasionally  spoke  to  him.  Marco 
touched  The  Rat's  coat  sleeve  as  the  two  boys  ap- 
proached. 

"  It  would  not  be  easy  to  get  near  him,"  he  said. 
"  Let  us  go  and  stand  as  close  to  the  carriage  as  we  can 
get  without  pushing.  Perhaps  we  may  hear  some  one 
say  something  about  where  he  is  going  after  the  music 
is  over." 

Yes,  there  was  no  mistaking  him.  He  was  the  right 
man.  Each  of  them  knew  by  heart  the  creases  on 
his  stout  face  and  the  sweep  of  his  gray  moustache. 
239 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

But  there  was  nothing  noticable  in  a  boy  looking  for  a 
moment  at  a  piece  of  paper,  and  Marco  sauntered  a 
few  steps  to  a  bit  of  space  left  bare  by  the  crowd  and 
took  a  last  glance  at  his  sketch.  His  rule  was  to  make 
sure  at  the  final  moment.  The  music  was  very  good 
and  the  group  about  the  carriage  was  evidently  en- 
thusiastic. There  was  talk  and  praise  and  comment, 
and  the  old  aristocrat  nodded  his  head  repeatedly  in 
applause. 

"  The  Chancellor  is  music  mad,"  a  looker-on  near 
the  boys  said  to  another.  "  At  the  opera  every  night 
unless  serious  affairs  keep  him  away !  There  you  may 
see  him  nodding  his  old  head  and  bursting  his  gloves 
with  applauding  when  a  good  thing  is  done.  He  ought 
to  have  led  an  orchestra  or  played  a  'cello.  He  is  too 
big  for  first  violin." 

There  was  a  group  about  the  carriage  to  the  last, 
when  the  music  came  to  an  end  and  it  drove  away. 
There  had  been  no  possible  opportunity  of  passing  close 
to  it  even  had  the  presence  of  the  young  officer  and  the 
boy  not  presented  an  insurmountable  obstacle. 

Marco  and  The  Rat  went  on  their  way  and  passed 
by  the  Hof-Theater  and  read  the  bills.  "  Tristan  and 
Isolde  "  was  to  be  presented  at  night  and  a  great  singer 
would  sing  Isolde. 

"  He  will  go  to  hear  that,"  both  boys  said  at  once. 
"  He  will  be  sure  to  go." 

It  was  decided  between  them  that  Marco  should  go 
on  his  quest  alone  when  night  came.  One  boy  who 
240 


MARCO  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

hung  about  the  entrance  of  the  Opera  would  be  ob- 
served less  than  two. 

"  People  notice  crutches  more  than  they  notice  legs," 
The  Rat  said.  "  I  'd  better  keep  out  of  the  way  un- 
less you  need  me.  My  time  has  n't  come  yet.  Even 
if  it  does  n't  come  at  all  I  've  —  I  've  been  on  duty. 
I  've  gone  with  you  and  I  've  been  ready  —  that 's  what 
an  Aide-de-camp  does." 

He  stayed  at  home  and  read  such  English  papers  as 
he  could  lay  hands  on  and  he  drew  plans  and  re-fought 
battles  on  paper. 

Marco  went  to  the  opera.  Even  if  he  had  not 
known  his  way  to  the  square  near  the  place  where  the 
Ho f -Theater  stood,  he  could  easily  have  found  it  by 
following  the  groups  of  people  in  the  streets  who  all 
seemed  walking  in  one  direction.  There  were  students 
in  their  odd  caps  walking  three  or  four  abreast,  there 
were  young  couples  and  older  ones,  and  here  and  there 
whole  families;  there  were  soldiers  of  all  ages,  officers 
and  privates;  and,  when  talk  was  to  be  heard  in  pass- 
ing, it  was  always  talk  about  music. 

For  some  time  Marco  waited  in  the  square  and 
watched  the  carriages  roll  up  and  pass  under  the  huge 
pillared  portico  to  deposit  their  contents  at  the  en- 
trance and  at  once  drive  away  in  orderly  sequence.  He 
must  make  sure  that  the  grand  carriage  with  the  green 
and  silver  liveries  rolled  up  with  the  rest.  If  it  came, 
he  would  buy  a  cheap  ticket  and  go  inside. 

It  was  rather  late  when  it  arrived.  People  in 
241 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Munich  are  not  late  for  the  opera  if  it  can  be  helped, 
and  the  coachman  drove  up  hurriedly.  The  green  and 
silver  footman  leaped  to  the  ground  and  opened  the 
carriage  door  almost  before  it  stopped.  The  Chan- 
cellor got  out  looking  less  genial  than  usual  because  he 
was  afraid  that  he  might  lose  some  of  the  overture. 
A  rosy-cheeked  girl  in  a  white  frock  was  with  him  and 
she  was  evidently  trying  to  soothe  him. 

"  I  do  not  think  we  are  really  late,  Father,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  feel  cross,  dear.  It  will  spoil  the  music  for 
you." 

This  was  not  a  time  in  which  a  man's  attention  could 
be  attracted  quietly.  Marco  ran  to  get  the  ticket  which 
would  give  him  a  place  among  the  rows  of  young 
soldiers,  artists,  male  and  female  students,  and 
musicians  who  were  willing  to  stand  four  or  five  deep 
throughout  the  performance  of  even  the  longest  opera. 
He  knew  that,  unless  they  were  in  one  of  the  few  boxes 
which  belonged  only  to  the  court,  the  Chancellor  and 
his  rosy-cheeked  daughter  would  be  in  the  best  seats  in 
the  front  curve  of  the  balcony  which  were  the  most 
desirable  of  the  house.  He  soon  saw  them.  They 
had  secured  the  central  places  directly  below  the  large 
royal  box  where  two  quiet  princesses  and  their  at- 
tendants were  already  seated. 

When  he  found  he  was  not  too  late  to  hear  the  over- 
ture, the  Chancellor's  face  became  more  genial  than 
ever.  He  settled  himself  down  to  an  evening  of  en- 
joyment and  evidently  forgot  everything  else  in  the 
242 


MARCO  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

world.  Marco  did  not  lose  sight  of  him.  When  the 
audience  went  out  between  the  acts  to  promenade  in  the 
corridors,  he  might  go  also  and  there  might  be  a  chance 
to  pass  near  to  him  in  the  crowd.  He  watched  him 
closely.  Sometimes  his  fine  old  face  saddened  at  the 
beautiful  woe  of  the  music,  sometimes  it  looked  en- 
raptured, and  it  was  always  evident  that  every  note 
reached  his  soul. 

The  pretty  daughter  who  sat  beside  him  was  atten- 
tive but  not  so  enthralled.  After  the  first  act  two  glit- 
tering young  officers  appeared  and  made  elegant  and 
low  bows,  drawing  their  heels  together  as  they  kissed 
her  hand.  They  looked  sorry  when  they  were  obliged 
to  return  to  their  seats  again. 

After  the  second  act  the  Chancellor  sat  for  a  few 
minutes  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  The  people  in  the 
seats  near  him  began  to  rise  from  their  chairs  and  file 
out  into  the  corridors.  The  young  officers  were  to  be 
seen  rising  also.  The  rosy  daughter  leaned  forward 
and  touched  her  father's  arm  gently. 

"  She  wants  him  to  take  her  out,"  Marco  thought. 
"  He  will  take  her  because  he  is  good-natured." 

He  saw  him  recall  himself  from  his  dream  with  a 
smile  and  then  he  rose  and,  after  helping  to  arrange  a 
silvery  blue  scarf  round  the  girl's  shoulders,  gave  her 
his  arm  just  as  Marco  skipped  out  of  his  fourth-row 
standing-place. 

It  was  a  rather  warm  night  and  the  corridors  were 
full.  By  the  time  Marco  had  reached  the  balcony 
243 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

floor,  the  pair  had  issued  from  the  little  door  and  were 
temporarily  lost  in  the  moving  numbers. 

Marco  quietly  made  his  way  among  the  crowd  try- 
ing to  look  as  if  he  belonged  to  somebody.  Once  or 
twice  his  strong  body  and  his  dense  black  eyes  and 
lashes  made  people  glance  at  him,  but  he  was  not  the 
only  boy  who  had  been  brought  to  the  opera  so  he  felt 
safe  enough  to  stop  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  watch 
those  who  went  up  and  those  who  passed  by.  Such  a 
miscellaneous  crowd  as  it  was  made  up  of  —  good  un- 
fashionable music-lovers  mixed  here  and  there  with 
grand  people  of  the  court  and  the  gay  world. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  low  laugh  and  a  moment  later 
a  hand  lightly  touched  him. 

"  You  did  get  out,  then?  "  a  soft  voice  said. 

When  he  turned  he  felt  his  muscles  stiffen.  He 
ceased  to  slouch  and  did  not  smile  as  he  looked  at  the 
speaker.  What  he  felt  was  a  wave  of  fierce  and 
haughty  anger.  It  swept  over  him  before  he  had  time 
to  control  it. 

A  lovely  person  who  seemed  swathed  in  several 
shades  of  soft  violet  drapery  was  smiling  at  him  with 
long,  lovely  eyes. 

It  was  the  woman  who  had  trapped  him  into  No.  10 
Brandon  Terrace. 


244 


*x  ^:r< 


WMgm^ 


- 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"  HELP  !  " 

'  TT\ID  it  take  you  long  to  find  it  ?  "  asked  the  lovely 
I  3  person  with  the  smile.  "Of  course  I  knew  you 
would  find  it  in  the  end.  But  we  had  to  give  ourselves 
time.     How  long  did  it  take  ?  " 

Marco  removed  himself  from  beneath  the  touch  of 
her  hand.  It  was  quietly  done,  but  there  was  a  dis- 
dain in  his  young  face  which  made  her  wince  though 
she  pretended  to  shrug  her  shoulders  amusedly. 

"You  refuse  to  answer?"  she  laughed. 

"  I  refuse." 

At  that  very  moment  he  saw  at  the  curve  of  the 
corridor  the  Chancellor  and  his  daughter  approaching 
slowly.  The  two  young  officers  were  talking  gaily  to 
the  girl.  They  were  on  their  way  back  to  their  box. 
Was  he  going  to  lose  them?     Was  he? 

The  delicate  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder  again,  but 
this  time  he  felt  that  it  grasped  him  firmly. 

"  Naughty  boy !  "  the  soft  voice  said.  "  I  am  going 
to  take  you  home  with  me.  If  you  struggle  I  shall 
tell  these  people  that  you  are  my  bad  boy  who  is  here 
without  permission.  What  will  you  answer?  My 
escort  is  coming  down  the  staircase  and  will  help  me. 
245 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Do  you  see?"  And  in  fact  there  appeared  in  the 
crowd  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  the  figure  of  the  man 
he  remembered. 

He  did  see.  A  dampness  broke  out  on  the  palms  of 
his  hands.  If  she  did  this  bold  thing,  what  could  he 
say  to  those  she  told  her  lie  to  ?  How  could  he  bring 
proof  or  explain  who  he  was  —  and  what  story  dare  he 
tell?  His  protestations  and  struggles  would  merely 
amuse  the  lookers-on,  who  would  see  in  them  only  the 
impotent  rage  of  an  insubordinate  youngster. 

There  swept  over  him  a  wave  of  remembrance  which 
brought  back,  as  if  he  were  living  through  it  again,  the 
moment  when  he  had  stood  in  the  darkness  of  the  wine 
cellar  with  his  back  against  the  door  and  had  heard  the 
man  walk  away  and  leave  him  alone.  He  felt  again  as 
he  had  done  then  —  but  now  he  was  in  another  land 
and  far  away  from  his  father.  He  could  do  nothing 
to  help  himself  unless  Something  showed  him  a  way. 

He  made  no  sound,  and  the  woman  who  held  him 
saw  only  a  flame  leap  under  his  dense  black  lashes. 

But  something  within  him  called  out.  It  was  as  if 
he  heard  it.  It  was  that  strong  self  —  the  self  that 
was  Marco,  and  it  called  —  it  called  as  if  it  shouted. 

"  Help !  "  it  called  —  to  that  Unknown  Stranger 
Thing  which  had  made  worlds  and  which  he  and  his 
father  so  often  talked  of  and  in  whose  power  they  so 
believed.     "  Help ! " 

The  Chancellor  was  drawing  nearer.  Perhaps? 
Should  he  — ? 

246 


"HELP!" 

"  You  are  too  proud  to  kick  and  shout,"  the  voice 
went  on.  "  And  people  would  only  laugh.  Do  you 
see?" 

The  stairs  were  crowded  and  the  man  who  was  at 
the  head  of  them  could  only  move  slowly.  But  he 
had  seen  the  boy. 

Marco  turned  so  that  he  could  face  his  captor 
squarely  as  if  he.  were  going  to  say  something  in  an- 
swer to  her.  But  he  was  not.  Even  as  he  made  the 
movement  of  turning,  the  help  he  had  called  for  came 
and  he  knew  what  he  should  do.  And  he  could  do  two 
things  at  once  —  save  himself  and  give  his  Sign  — 
because,  the  Sign  once  given,  the  Chancellor  would  un- 
derstand. 

"  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  He  has  recognized 
you,"  the  woman  said. 

As  he  glanced  up  the  stairs,  the  delicate  grip  of  her 
hand  unconsciously  slackened. 

Marco  whirled  away  from  her.  The  bell  rang 
which  was  to  warn  the  audience  that  they  must  return 
to  their  seats  and  he  saw  the  Chancellor  hasten  his  pace. 

A  moment  later,  the  old  aristocrat  found  himself 
amazedly  looking  down  at  the  pale  face  of  a  breath- 
less lad  who  spoke  to  him  in  German  and  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  could  not  but  pause  and  listen. 

"  Sir,"  he  was  saying,  "  the  woman  in  violet  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  is  a  spy.  She  trapped  me  once  and 
she  threatens  to  do  it  again.  Sir,  may  I  beg  you  to 
protect  me?" 

247 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

He  said  it  low  and  fast.  No  one  else  could  hear  his 
words. 

"  What !     What !  "  the  Chancellor  exclaimed. 

And  then,  drawing  a  step  nearer  and  quite  as  low  and 
rapidly  but  with  perfect  distinctness,  Marco  uttered 
four  words : 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted." 

The  Help  cry  had  been  answered  instantly.  Marco 
saw  it  at  once  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  notwithstanding 
that  he  turned  to  look  at  the  woman  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase  as  if  she  only  concerned  him. 

"  What !  What !  "  he  said  again,  and  made  a  move- 
ment toward  her,  pulling  his  large  moustache  with  a 
fierce  hand. 

Then  Marco  recognized  that  a  curious  thing  hap- 
pened. The  Lovely  Person  saw  the  movement  and  the 
gray  moustache,  and  that  instant  her  smile  died  away 
and  she  turned  quite  white  —  so  white,  that  under  the 
brilliant  electric  light  she  was  almost  green  and  scarcely 
looked  lovely  at  all.  She  made  a  sign  to  the  man  on 
the  staircase  and  slipped  through  the  crowd  like  an  eel. 
She  was  a  slim  flexible  creature  and  never  was  a  dis- 
appearance more  wonderful  in  its  rapidity.  Between 
stout  matrons  and  their  thin  or  stout  escorts  and 
families  she  made  her  way  and  lost  herself  —  but 
always  making  toward  the  exit.  In  two  minutes 
there  was  no  sight  of  her  violet  draperies  to  be  seen. 
She  was  gone  and  so,  evidently,  was  her  male  com- 
panion. 

248 


"HELP!" 

It  was  plain  to  Marco  that  to  follow  the  profession 
of  a  spy  was  not  by  any  means  a  safe  thing.  The 
Chancellor  had  recognized  her  —  she  had  recognized 
the  Chancellor  who  turned  looking  ferociously  angry 
and  spoke  to  one  of  the  young  officers. 

"  She  and  the  man  with  her  are  two  of  the  most 
dangerous  spies  in  Europe.  She  is  a  Rumanian  and 
he  is  a  Russian.  What  they  wanted  of  this  innocent 
lad  I  don't  pretend  to  know.  What  did  she  threaten  ?  " 
to  Marco. 

Marco  was  feeling  rather  cold  and  sick  and  had  lost 
his  healthy  color  for  the  moment. 

"  She  said  she  meant  to  take  me  home  with  her  and 
would  pretend  I  was  her  son  who  had  come  here  with- 
out permission,"  he  answered.  "  She  believes  I  know 
something  I  do  not."  He  made  a  hesitating  but  grate- 
ful bow.  "  The  third  act,  Sir  —  I  must  not  keep  you. 
Thank  you!     Thank  you!  " 

The  Chancellor  moved  toward  the  entrance  door  of 
the  balcony  seats,  but  he  did  it  with  his  hand  on  Mar- 
co's shoulder. 

"  See  that  he  gets  home  safely,"  he  said  to  the 
younger  of  the  two  officers.  "  Send  a  messenger  with 
him.  He  's  young  to  be  attacked  by  creatures  of  that 
kind." 

Polite  young  officers  naturally  obey  the  commands  of 

Chancellors   and   such  dignitaries.     This   one   found 

without  trouble  a  young  private  who  marched  with 

Marco  through  the  deserted  streets  to  his  lodgings. 

249 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

He  was  a  stolid  young  Bavarian  peasant  and  seemed  to 
have  no  curiosity  or  even  any  interest  in  the  reason  for 
the  command  given  him.  He  was  in  fact  thinking  of 
his  sweetheart  who  lived  near  Konigsee  and  who  had 
skated  with  him  on  the  frozen  lake  last  winter.  He 
scarcely  gave  a  glance  to  the  schoolboy  he  was  to  es- 
cort, he  neither  knew  nor  wondered  why. 

The  Rat  had  fallen  asleep  over  his  papers  and  lay 
with  his  head  on  his  folded  arms  on  the  table.  But 
he  was  awakened  by  Marco's  coming  into  the  room 
and  sat  up  blinking  his  eyes  in  the  effort  to  get  them 
open. 

"  Did  you  see  him?  Did  you  get  near  enough?  "  he 
drowsed. 

"  Yes,"  Marco  answered.     "  I  got  near  enough." 

The  Rat  sat  upright  suddenly. 

"  It 's  not  been  easy,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  'm  sure 
something  happened  —  something  went  wrong." 

"  Something  nearly  went  wrong  —  very  nearly," 
answered  Marco.  But  as  he  spoke  he  took  the  sketch 
of  the  Chancellor  out  of  the  slit  in  his  sleeve  and  tore 
it  and  burned  it  with  a  match.  "  But  I  did  get  near 
enough.     And  that 's  two." 

They  talked  long,  before  they  went  to  sleep  that 
night.  The  Rat  grew  pale  as  he  listened  to  the  story 
of  the  woman  in  violet. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  with  you !  "  he  said.  "  I 
see  now.  An  Aide-de-camp  must  always  be  in  at- 
250 


"HELP!" 

tendance.  It  would  have  been  harder  for  her  to  man- 
age two  than  one.  I  must  always  be  near  to  watch, 
even  if  I  am  not  close  by  you.  If  you  had  not  come 
back  —  if  you  had  not  come  back!"  He  struck  his 
clenched  hands  together  fiercely.  "What  should  I 
have  done ! " 

When  Marco  turned  toward  him  from  the  table  near 
which  he  was  standing,  he  looked  like  his  father. 

"  You  would  have  gone  on  with  the  Game  just  as  far 
as  you  could,"  he  said.  "  You  could  not  leave  it. 
You  remember  the  places,  and  the  faces,  and  the  Sign. 
There  is  some  money;  and  when  it  was  all  gone,  you 
could  have  begged,  as  we  used  to  pretend  we  should. 
We  have  not  had  to  do  it  yet,  and  it  was  best  to  save 
it  for  country  places  and  villages.  But  you  could  have 
done  it  if  you  were  obliged  to.  The  Game  would  have 
to  go  on." 

The  Rat  caught  at  his  thin  chest  as  if  he  had  been 
struck  breathless. 

"Without  you?"  he  gasped.     "Without  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Marco.  "  And  we  must  think  of  it, 
and  plan  in  case  anything  like  that  should  happen." 

He  stopped  himself  quite  suddenly,  and  sat  down, 
looking  straight  before  him,  as  if  at  some  far  away 
thing  he  saw. 

"  Nothing  will  happen,"  he  said.     "  Nothing  can." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  "  The  Rat  gulped,  be- 
cause his  breath  had  not  quite  come  back.  "  Why  will 
nothing  happen  ?  " 

251 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Because  — "  the  boy  spoke  in  an  almost  matter-of- 
fact  tone  —  in  quite  an  unexalted  tone  at  all  events, 
"  you  see  I  can  always  make  a  strong  call,  as  I  did  to- 
night." 

"  Did  you  shout  ?  "  The  Rat  asked.  "  I  did  n't  know 
you  shouted." 

"  I  did  n't.  I  said  nothing  aloud.  But  I  —  the  my- 
self that  is  in  me,"  Marco  touched  himself  on  his 
breast,  "  called  out,  '  Help !  Help ! '  with  all  its 
strength.     And  help  came." 

The  Rat  regarded  him  dubiously. 

"  What  did  it  call  to  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  the  Power  —  to  the  Strength-place  —  to  the 
Thought  that  does  things.  The  Buddhist  hermit,  who 
told  my  father  about  it,  called  it  '  The  Thought  that 
thought  the  World.'  " 

A  reluctant  suspicion  betrayed  itself  in  The  Rat's 
eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  you  prayed?"  he  inquired,  with  a 
slight  touch  of  disfavor. 

Marco's  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  him  in  vague 
thought  fulness  for  a  moment  or  so  of  pause. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Perhaps  it 's  the 
same  thing  —  when  you  need  something  so  much  that 
you  cry  out  loud  for  it.  But  it 's  not  words,  it 's  a 
strong  thing  without  a  name.  I  called  like  that  when 
I  was  shut  in  the  wine-cellar.  I  remembered  some  of 
the  things  the  old  Buddhist  told  my  father." 

The  Rat  moved  restlessly. 

2$2 


"HELP!" 

"  The  help  came  that  time,"  he  admitted.  "  How 
did  it  come  to-night?  " 

"  In  that  thought  which  flashed  into  my  mind  almost 
the  next  second.  It  came  like  lightning.  All  at 
once  I  knew  that  if  I  ran  to  the  Chancellor  and  said  the 
woman  was  a  spy,  it  would  startle  him  into  listening  to 
me ;  and  that  then  I  could  give  him  the  Sign ;  and  that 
when  I  gave  him  the  Sign,  he  would  know  I  was  speak- 
ing the  truth  and  would  protect  me." 

"  It  was  a  splendid  thought !  "  The  Rat  said.  "  And 
it  was  quick.     But  it  was  you  who  thought  it." 

"  All  thinking  is  part  of  the  Big  Thought,"  said 
Marco  slowly.  "  It  knows  —  It  knows  —  It  knows. 
And  the  outside  part  of  us  somehow  broke  the  chain 
that  linked  us  to  It.  And  we  are  always  trying  to 
mend  the  chain,  without  knowing  how.  That  is  what 
our  thinking  is  —  trying  to  mend  the  chain.  But  we 
shall  find  out  how  to  do  it  sometime.  The  old 
Buddhist  told  my  father  so  —  just  as  the  sun  was  ris- 
ing from  behind  a  high  peak  of  the  Himalayas." 
Then  he  added  hastily,  "  I  am  only  telling  you  what 
my  father  told  me,  and  he  only  told  me  what  the  old 
hermit  told  him." 

"Does  your  father  believe  what  he  told  him?" 
The  Rat's  bewilderment  had  become  an  eager  and  rest- 
less thing. 

"  Yes,  he  believes  it.  He  always  thought  something 
like  it,  himself.  That  is  why  he  is  so  calm  and  knows 
so  well  how  to  wait." 

253 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"Is  that  it!"  breathed  The  Rat.  "Is  that  why? 
Has  —  has  he  mended  the  chain?"  And  there  was 
awe  in  his  voice,  because  of  this  one  man  to  whom  he 
felt  any  achievement  was  possible. 

"  I  believe  he  has,"  said  Marco.  "  Don't  you  think 
so  yourself?  " 

"  He  has  done  something,"  The  Rat  said. 

He  seemed  to  be  thinking  things  over  before  he 
spoke  again  —  and  then  even  more  slowly  than  Marco. 

"  If  he  could  mend  the  chain,"  he  said  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "  he  could  find  out  where  the  descendant  of 
the  Lost  Prince  is.  He  would  know  what  to  do  for 
Samavia !  " 

He  ended  the  words  with  a  start,  and  his  whole  face 
glowed  with  a  new,  amazed  light. 

"  Perhaps  he  does  know !  "  he  cried.  "  If  the  help 
comes  like  thoughts  —  as  yours  did  —  perhaps  his 
thought  of  letting  us  give  the  Sign  was  part  of  it. 
We  —  just  we  two  everyday  boys  —  are  part  of 
it!" 

"  The  old  Buddhist  said  — "  began  Marco. 

"  Look  here !  "  broke  in  The  Rat.  "  Tell  me  the 
whole  story.     I  want  to  hear  it." 

It  was  because  Loristan  had  heard  it,  and  listened, 
and  believed,  that  The  Rat  had  taken  fire.  His  im- 
agination seized  upon  the  idea,  as  it  would  have  seized 
on  some  theory  of  necromancy  proved  true  and  work- 
able. 

With  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  hands  in  his 
254 


"HELP!" 

hair,  he  leaned  forward,  twisting  a  lock  with  restless 
fingers.     His  breath  quickened. 

"  Tell  it,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  hear  it  all !  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  it  in  my  own  words,"  Marco 
said.  "  And  it  won't  be  as  wonderful  as  it  was  when 
my  father  told  it  to  me.     This  is  what  I  remember : 

"  My  father  had  gone  through  much  pain  and 
trouble.  A  great  load  was  upon  him,  and  he  had 
been  told  he  was  going  to  die  before  his  work  was 
done.  He  had  gone  to  India,  because  a  man  he  was 
obliged  to  speak  to  had  gone  there  to  hunt,  and  no  one 
knew  when  he  would  return.  My  father  followed  him 
for  months  from  one  wild  place  to  another,  and,  when 
he  found  him,  the  man  would  not  hear  or  believe  what 
he  had  come  so  far  to  say.  Then  he  had  jungle-fever 
and  almost  died.  Once  the  natives  left  him  for  dead  in 
a  bungalow  in  the  forest,  and  he  heard  the  jackals 
howling  round  him  all  the  night.  Through  all  the 
hours  he  was  only  alive  enough  to  be  conscious  of  two 
things — 'all  the  rest  of  him  seemed  gone  from  his 
body:  his  thought  knew  that  his  work  was  unfinished 
—  and  his  body  heard  the  jackals  howl." 

"  Was  the  work  for  Samavia  ?  "  The  Rat  put  in 
quickly.  "If  he  had  died  that  night,  the  descendant 
of  the  Lost  Prince  never  would  have  been  found  — 
never! "  The  Rat  bit  his  lip  so  hard  that  a  drop  of 
blood  started  from  it. 

"  When  he  was  slowly  coming  alive  again,  a  native, 
who  had  gone  back  and  stayed  to  wait  upon  him,  told 
255 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

him  that  near  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  about  fifty 
miles  away,  there  was  a  ledge  which  jutted  out  into 
space  and  hung  over  the  valley,  which  was  thousands 
of  feet  below.  On  the  ledge  there  was  a  hut  in  which 
there  lived  an  ancient  Buddhist,  who  was  a  holy  man, 
as  they  called  him,  and  who  had  been  there  during 
time  which  had  not  been  measured.  They  said  that 
their  grandparents  and  great-grandparents  had  known 
of  him,  though  very  few  persons  had  ever  seen  him, 
It  was  told  that  the  most  savage  beast  was  tame  before 
him.  They  said  that  a  man-eating  tiger  would 
stop  to  salute  him,  and  that  a  thirsty  lioness  would 
bring  her  whelps  to  drink  at  the  spring  near  his 
hut." 

"  That  was  a  lie,"  said  The  Rat  promptly. 

Marco  neither  laughed  nor  frowned. 

"  How  do  we  know?  "  he  said.  "  It  was  a  native's 
story,  and  it  might  be  anything.  My  father  neither 
said  it  was  true  nor  false.  He  listened  to  all  that  was 
told  him  by  natives.  They  said  that  the  holy  man  was 
the  brother  of  the  stars.  He  knew  all  things  past  and 
to  come,  and  could  heal  the  sick.  But  most  people, 
especially  those  who  had  sinful  thoughts,  were  afraid 
to  go  near  him." 

"  I  'd  like  to  have  seen  — "  The  Rat  pondered 
aloud,  but  he  did  not  finish. 

"  Before  my  father  was  well,  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  travel  to  the  ledge  if  he  could.  He  felt  as  if 
he  must  go.  He  thought  that  if  he  were  going  to  die, 
256 


"HELP!" 

the  hermit  might  tell  him  some  wise  thing  to  do  for 
Samavia." 

"  He  might  have  given  him  a  message  to  leave  to  the 
Secret  Ones,"  said  The  Rat. 

"  He  was  so  weak  when  he  set  out  on  his  journey 
that  he  wondered  if  he  would  reach  the  end  of  it 
Part  of  the  way  he  traveled  by  bullock  cart,  and  part, 
he  was  carried  by  natives.  But  at  last  the  bearers 
came  to  a  place  more  than  halfway  up  the  mountain, 
and  would  go  no  further.  Then  they  went  back  and 
left  him  to  climb  the  rest  of  the  way  himself.  They 
had  traveled  slowly  and  he  had  got  more  strength,  but 
he  was  weak  yet.  The  forest  was  more  wonderful 
than  anything  he  had  ever  seen.  There  were  tropical 
trees  with  foliage  like  lace,  and  some  with  huge  leaves, 
and  some  of  them  seemed  to  reach  the  sky.  Some- 
times he  could  barely  see  gleams  of  blue  through  them. 
And  vines  swung  down  from  their  high  branches,  and 
caught  each  other,  and  matted  together ;  and  there  were 
hot  scents,  and  strange  flowers,  and  dazzling  birds 
darting  about,  and  thick  moss,  and  little  cascades  burst- 
ing out.  The  path  grew  narrower  and  steeper,  and  the 
flower  scents  and  the  sultriness  made  it  like  walking 
in  a  hothouse.  He  heard  rustlings  in  the  undergrowth, 
which  might  have  been  made  by  any  kind  of  wild  ani- 
mal; once  he  stepped  across  a  deadly  snake  without 
seeing  it.  But  it  was  asleep  and  did  not  hurt  him.  He 
knew  the  natives  had  been  convinced  that  he  would  not 
reach  the  ledge;  but  for  some  strange  reason  he  be- 
257 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

lieved  he  should.  He  stopped  and  rested  many  times, 
and  he  drank  some  milk  he  had  brought  in  a  canteen. 
The  higher  he  climbed,  the  more  wonderful  everything 
was,  and  a  strange  feeling  began  to  fill  him.  He  said 
his  body  stopped  being  tired  and  began  to  feel  very 
light.  And  his  load  lifted  itself  from  his  heart,  as  if 
it  were  not  his  load  any  more  but  belonged  to  some- 
thing stronger.  Even  Samavia  seemed  to  be  safe. 
As  he  went  higher  and  higher,  and  looked  down  the 
abyss  at  the  world  below,  it  appeared  as  if  it  were  not 
real  but  only  a  dream  he  had  wakened  from  —  only  a 
dream." 

The  Rat  moved  restlessly. 

"  Perhaps  he  was  light-headed  with  the  fever,"  he 
suggested. 

"  The  fever  had  left  him,  and  the  weakness  had  left 
him,"  Marco  answered.  "  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  never 
really  been  ill  at  all  —  as  if  no  one  could  be  ill,  because 
things  like  that  were  only  dreams,  just  as  the  world 
was." 

"  I  wish  I  'd  been  with  him !  Perhaps  I  could  have 
thrown  these  away  —  down  into  the  abyss !  "  And 
The  Rat  shook  his  crutches  which  rested  against  the 
table.     "  I  feel  as  if  I  was  climbing,  too.     Go  on." 

Marco  had  become  more  absorbed  than  The  Rat. 
He  had  lost  himself  in  the  memory  of  the  story. 

"  I  felt  that  /  was  climbing,  when  he  told  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  felt  as  if  I  were  breathing  in  the  hot  flower- 
scents  and  pushing  aside  the  big  leaves  and  giant  ferns. 
258 


"HELP!" 

There  had  been  a  rain,  and  they  were  wet  and  shining 
with  big  drops,  like  jewels,  that  showered  over  him  as 
he  thrust  his  way  through  and  under  them.  And  the 
stillness  and  the  height  —  the  stillness  and  the  height ! 
I  can't  make  it  real  to  you  as  he  made  it  to  me!  I 
can't!  I  was  there.  He  took  me.  And  it  was  so 
high  —  and  so  still  —  and  so  beautiful  that  I  could 
scarcely  bear  it." 

But  the  truth  was,  that  with  some  vivid  boy-touch 
he  had  carried  his  hearer  far.  The  Rat  was  deadly 
quiet.  Even  his  eyes  had  not  moved.  He  spoke  al- 
most as  if  he  were  in  a  sort  of  trance.  "  It 's  real," 
he  said.  "  I  'm  there  now.  As  high  as  you  —  go  on. 
—  go  on.     I  want  to  climb  higher." 

And  Marco,  understanding,  went  on. 

"  The  day  was  over  and  the  stars  were  out  when  he 
reached  the  place  where  the  ledge  was.  He  said  he 
thought  that  during  the  last  part  of  the  climb  he  never 
looked  on  the  earth  at  all.  The  stars  were  so  immense 
that  he  could  not  look  away  from  them.  They  seemed 
to  be  drawing  him  up.  And  all  overhead  was  like 
violet  velvet,  and  they  hung  there  like  great  lamps  of 
radiance.  Can  you  see  them?  You  must  see  them. 
My  father  saw  them  all  night  long.  They  were  part  of 
the  wonder." 

"  I  see  them,"  The  Rat  answered,  still  in  his  trance- 
like voice  and  without  stirring,  and  Marco  knew  he  did. 

"  And  there,  with  the  huge  stars  watching  it,  was  the 
hut  on  the  ledge.     And  there  was  no  one  there.     The 
259 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

door  was  open.  And  outside  it  was  a  low  bench  and 
table  of  stone.  And  on  the  table  was  a  meal  of  dates 
and  rice,  waiting.  Not  far  from  the  hut  was  a  deep 
spring,  which  ran  away  in  a  clear  brook.  My  father 
drank  and  bathed  his  face  there.  Then  he  went  out  on 
the  ledge,  and  sat  down  and  waited,  with  his  face 
turned  up  to  the  stars.  He  did  not  lie  down,  and  he 
thought  he  saw  the  stars  all  the  time  he  waited.  He 
was  sure  he  did  not  sleep.  He  did  not  know  how  long 
he  sat  there  alone.  But  at  last  he  drew  his  eyes  from 
the  stars,  as  if  he  had  been  commanded  to  do  it.  And 
he  was  not  alone  any  more.  A  yard  or  so  away  from 
him  sat  the  holy  man.  He  knew  it  was  the  hermit  be- 
cause his  eyes  were  different  from  any  human  eyes  he 
had  ever  beheld.  They  were  as  still  as  the  night  was, 
and  as  deep  as  the  shadows  covering  the  world  thou- 
sands of  feet  below,  and  they  had  a  far,  far  look,  and 
a*  strange  light  was  in  them." 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asked  The  Rat  hoarsely. 

"  He  only  said,  *  Rise,  my  son.  I  awaited  thee. 
Go  and  eat  the  food  I  prepared  for  thee,  and  then  we 
will  speak  together/  He  did  n't  move  or  speak  again 
until  my  father  had  eaten  the  meal.  He  only  sat  on 
the  moss  and  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  shadows  over  the 
abyss.  When  my  father  went  back,  he  made  a  gesture 
which  meant  that  he  should  sit  near  him. 

"  Then  he  sat  still  for  several  minutes,  and  let  his 
eyes  rest  on  my  father,  until  he  felt  as  if  the  light  in 
them  were  set  in  the  midst  of  his  own  body  and  his 
260 


"HELP!" 

soul.  Then  he  said,  '  I  cannot  tell  thee  all  thou 
wouldst  know.  That  I  may  not  do.'  He  had  a  won- 
derful gentle  voice,  like  a  deep  soft  bell.  '  But  the 
work  will  be  done.  Thy  life  and  thy  son's  life  will 
set  it  on  its  way.' 

"  They  sat  through  the  whole  night  together.  And 
the  stars  hung  quite  near,  as  if  they  listened.  And 
there  were  sounds  in  the  bushes  of  stealthy,  padding 
feet  which  wandered  about  as  if  the  owners  of  them 
listened  too.  And  the  wonderful,  low,  peaceful  voice 
of  the  holy  man  went  on  and  on,  telling  of  wonders 
which  seemed  like  miracles  but  which  were  to  him  only 
the  '  working  of  the  Law.'  " 

"  What  is  the  Law?  "  The  Rat  broke  in. 

"  There  were  two  my  father  wrote  down,  and  I 
learned  them.  The  first  was  the  law  of  The  One. 
I  '11  try  to  say  that,"  and  he  covered  his  eyes  and  waited 
through  a  moment  of  silence. 

It  seemed  to  The  Rat  as  if  the  room  held  an  ex- 
traordinary stillness. 

"  Listen !  "  came  next.     "  This  is  it : 

" '  There  are  a  myriad  worlds.  There  is  but  One 
Thought  out  of  which  they  grew.  Its  Law  is  Order 
which  cannot  swerve.  Its  creatures  are  free  to  choose. 
Only  they  can  create  ^Disorder,  which  in  itself  is  Pain 
and  Woe  and  Hate  and  Fear.  These  they  alone  can 
bring  forth.  The  Great  One  is  a  Golden  Light*  It  is 
not  remote  but  near.  Hold  thyself  within  its  glow,  and 
thou  wilt  behold  all  things  clearly.  First,  with  all  thy 
261 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

breathing  being,  know  one  thing!  That  thine  own 
thought  —  when  so  thou  standest  —  is  one  with  That 
which  thought  the  Worlds! ' " 

"What?"  gasped  The  Rat.  "My  thought  — the 
things  /  think !  " 

"  Your  thoughts  —  boys'  thoughts  —  anybody's 
thoughts." 

"  You  're  giving  me  the  jim-jams!  " 

"  He  said  it,"  answered  Marco.  "  And  it  was  then 
he  spoke  about  the  broken  Link  —  and  about  the  great- 
est books  in  the  world  —  that  in  all  their  different 
ways,  they  were  only  saying  over  and  over  again  one 
thing  thousands  of  times.  Just  this  thing  — '  Hate 
not,  Fear  not,  Love.'  And  he  said  that  was  Order. 
And  when  it  was  disturbed,  suffering  came  —  poverty 
and  misery  and  catastrophe  and  wars." 

"Wars!"  The  Rat  said  sharply.  "The  World 
could  n't  do  without  war  —  and  armies  and  defences ! 
What  about  Samavia?  " 

"  My  father  asked  him  that.  And  this  is  what  he 
answered.  I  learned  that  too.  Let  me  think  again," 
and  he  waited  as  he  had  waited  before.  Then  he  lifted 
his  head.     "  Listen !     This  is  it : 

" f  Out  of  the  blackness  of  Disorder  and  its  out- 
pouring of  human  misery,  there  will  arise  the  Order 
which  is  Peace.  When  Man  learns  that  he  is  one  with 
the  Thought  which  itself  creates  all  beauty,  all  power, 
all  splendor,  and  all  repose,  he  will  not  fear  that  his 
brother  can  rob  him  of  his  heart's  desire.  He  will 
262 


"HELP!" 

stand  in  the  Light  and  draw  to  himself  his  own."' 

"  Draw  to  himself  ?  "  The  Rat  said.  "  Draw  what 
he  wants?     I  don't  believe  it!  " 

"  Nobody  does,"  said  Marco.  "  We  don't  know. 
He  said  we  stood  in  the  dark  of  the  night  —  without 
stars  —  and  did  not  know  that  the  broken  chain  swung 
just  above  us." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  said  The  Rat.  "It's  too 
big!" 

Marco  did  not  say  whether  he  believed  it  or  not.  He 
only  went  on  speaking. 

"  My  father  listened  until  he  felt  as  if  he  had  stopped 
breathing.  Just  at  the  stillest  of  the  stillness  the 
Buddhist  stopped  speaking.  And  there  was  a  rustling 
of  the  undergrowth  a  few  yards  away,  as  if  something 
big  was  pushing  its  way  through  —  and  there  was  the 
soft  pad  of  feet.  The  Buddhist  turned  his  head  and 
my  father  heard  him  say  softly:  '  Come  forth,  Sister.' 

"  And  a  huge  leopardess  with  two  cubs  walked  out 
on  to  the  ledge  and  came  to  him  and  threw  herself 
down  with  a  heavy  lunge  near  his  feet." 

"  Your  father  saw  that ! "  cried  out  The  Rat. 
"  You  mean  the  old  fellow  knew  something  that  made 
wild  beasts  afraid  to  touch  him  or  any  one  near  him  ?  " 

"  Not  afraid.  They  knew  he  was  their  brother,  and 
that  he  was  one  with  the  Law.  He  had  lived  so  long 
with  the  Great  Thought  that  all  darkness  and  fear  had 
left  him  forever.     He  had  mended  the  Chain." 

The  Rat  had  reached  deep  waters.  He  leaned  for- 
263 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ward  —  his  hands  burrowing  in  his  hair,  his  face  scowl- 
ing and  twisted,  his  eyes  boring  into  space.  He  had 
climbed  to  the  ledge  at  the  mountain  top ;  he  had  seen 
the  luminous  immensity  of  the  stars,  and  he  had  looked 
down  into  the  shadows  rilling  the  world  thousands  of 
feet  below.  Was  there  some  remote  deep  in  him  from 
whose  darkness  a  slow  light  was  rising?  All  that 
Loristan  had  said  he  knew  must  be  true.  But  the 
rest  of  it — ? 

Marco  got  up  and  came  over  to  him.  He  looked  like 
his  father  again. 

"  If  the  descendant  of  the  Lost  Prince  is  brought 
back  to  rule  Samavia,  he  will  teach  his  people  the  Law 
of  the  One.  It  was  for  that  the  holy  man  taught  my 
father  until  the  dawn  came." 

"  Who  will  —  who  will  teach  the  Lost  Prince  —  the 
new  King  —  when  he  is  found  ?  "  The  Rat  cried. 
"  Who  will  teach  him  ?  " 

"The  hermit  said  my  father  would.  He  said  he 
would  also  teach  his  son  —  and  that  son  would  teach 
his  son  —  and  he  would  teach  his.  And  through  such 
as  they  were,  the  whole  world  would  come  to  know  the 
Order  and  the  Law." 

Never  had  The  Rat  looked  so  strange  and  fierce  a 
thing.  A  whole  world  at  peace!  No  tactics  —  no 
battles  —  no  slaughtered  heroes  —  no  clash  of  arms, 
and  fame !  It  made  him  feel  sick.  And  yet  —  some- 
thing set  his  chest  heaving. 

"  And  your  father  would  teach  him  that  —  when  he 
264 


"HELP!" 

was  found!  So  that  he  could  teach  his  sons.  Your 
father  believes  in  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Marco  answered.  He  said  nothing  but 
"  Yes." 

The  Rat  threw  himself  forward  on  the  table,  face 
downward. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  he  must  make  me  believe  it. 
He  must  teach  me  —  if  he  can." 

They  heard  a  clumping  step  upon  the  staircase,  and, 
when  it  reached  the  landing,  it  stopped  at  their  door. 
Then  there  was  a  solid  knock. 

When  Marco  opened  the  door,  the  young  soldier  who 
had  escorted  him  from  the  Hof-Theater  was  standing 
outside.  He  looked  as  uninterested  and  stolid  as  be- 
fore, as  he  handed  in  a  small  flat  package. 

"  You  must  have  dropped  it  near  your  seat  at  the 
Opera,"  he  said.  "  I  was  to  give  it  into  your  own 
hands.     It  is  your  purse." 

After  he  had  clumped  down  the  staircase  again, 
Marco  and  The  Rat  drew  a  quick  breath  at  one  and 
the  same  time. 

"  I  had  no  seat  and  I  had  no  purse,"  Marco  said. 
"  Let  us  open  it" 

There  was  a  flat  limp  leather  note-holder  inside. 
In  it  was  a  paper,  at  the  head  of  which  were  photo- 
graphs of  the  Lovely  Person  and  her  companion.  Be- 
neath were  a  few  lines  which  stated  that  they  were  the 
well  known  spies,  Eugenia  Karovna  and  Paul  Varel, 
and  that  the  bearer  must  be  protected  against  them.  It 
265 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

was  signed  by  the  Chief  of  the  Police.  On  a  separate 
sheet  was  written  the  command :  "  Carry  this  with  you 
as  protection." 

"  That  is  help,"  The  Rat  said.  "  It  would  protect 
us,  even  in  another  country.  The  Chancellor  sent  it 
—  but  you  made  the  strong  call  —  and  it 's  here !  " 

There  was  no  street  lamp  to  shine  into  their  windows 
when  they  went  at  last  to  bed.  When  the  blind  was 
drawn  up,  they  were  nearer  the  sky  than  they  had  been 
in  the  Marylebone  Road.  The  last  thing  each  of  them 
saw,  as  he  went  to  sleep,  was  the  stars  —  and  in  their 
dreams,  they  saw  them  grow  larger  and  larger,  and 
hang  like  lamps  of  radiance  against  the  violet-velvet 
sky  above  a  ledge  of  a  Himalayan  Mountain,  where 
they  listened  to  the  sound  of  a  low  voice  going  on  and 
on  and  on. 


266 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A    NIGHT    VIGIL 

ON  a  hill  in  the  midst  of  a  great  Austrian  plain, 
around  which  high  Alps  wait  watching  through 
the  ages,  stands  a  venerable  fortress,  almost  more  beau- 
tiful than  anything  one  has  ever  seen.  Perhaps,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  great  plain  flowing  broadly  about  it 
with  its  wide-spread  beauties  of  meadow-land,  and 
wood,  and  dim-toned  buildings  gathered  about  farms, 
and  its  dream  of  a  small  ancient  city  at  its  feet,  it 
might  —  though  it  is  to  be  doubted  —  seem  something 
less  a  marvel  of  medieval  picturesqueness.  But  out  of 
the  plain  rises  the  low  hill,  and  surrounding  it  at  a 
stately  distance  stands  guard  the  giant  majesty  of 
Alps,  with  shoulders  in  the  clouds  and  god-like  heads 
above  them,  looking  on  —  always  looking  on  —  some- 
times themselves  ethereal  clouds  of  snow-whiteness, 
sometimes  monster  bare  crags  which  pierce  the  blue, 
and  whose  unchanging  silence  seems  to  know  the  secret 
of  the  everlasting.  And  on  the  hill  which  this  august 
circle  holds  in  its  embrace,  as  though  it  enclosed  a 
treasure,  stands  the  old,  old,  towered  fortress  built  as  a 
citadel  for  the  Prince  Archbishops,  who  were  kings  in 
267 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

their  domain  in  the  long  past  centuries  when  the  splen- 
dor and  power  of  ecclesiastical  princes  was  among  the 
greatest  upon  earth. 

And  as  you  approach  the  town  —  and  as  you  leave 
it  —  and  as  you  walk  through  its  streets,  the  broad 
calm  empty-looking  ones,  or  the  narrow  thoroughfares 
whose  houses  seem  so  near  to  each  other,  whether  you 
climb  or  descend  —  or  cross  bridges,  or  gaze  at 
churches,  or  step  out  on  your  balcony  at  night  to  look 
at  the  mountains  and  the  moon  —  always  it  seems  that 
from  some  point  you  can  see  it  gazing  down  at  you  — 
the  citadel  of  Hohen-Salzburg. 

It  was  to  Salzburg  they  went  next,  because  at  Salz- 
burg was  to  be  found  the  man  who  looked  like  a  hair- 
dresser and  who  worked  in  a  barber's  shop.  Strange 
as  it  might  seem,  to  him  also  must  be  carried  the  Sign. 

"  There  may  be  people  who  come  to  him  to  be  shaved 
—  soldiers,  or  men  who  know  things,"  The  Rat  worked 
it  out,  "  and  he  can  speak  to  them  when  he  is  standing 
close  to  them.  It  will  be  easy  to  get  near  him.  You 
can  go  and  have  your  hair  cut." 

The  journey  from  Munich  was  not  a  long  one,  and 
during  the  latter  part  of  it  they  had  the  wooden-seated 
third-class  carriage  to  themselves.  Even  the  drowsy 
old  peasant  who  nodded  and  slept  in  one  corner  got  out 
with  his  bundles  at  last.  To  Marco  the  mountains 
were  long-known  wonders  which  could  never  grow  old. 
They  had  always  and  always  been  so  old  t  Surely  they 
had  been  the  first  of  the  world !  Surely  they  had  been 
268 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

standing  there  waiting  when  it  was  said  "  Let  there 
be  Light."  The  Light  had  known  it  would  find  them 
there.  They  were  so  silent,  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if 
they  said  some  amazing  thing  —  something  which 
would  take  your  breath  from  you  if  you  could  hear  it. 
And  they  never  changed.  The  clouds  changed,  they 
wreathed  them,  and  hid  them,  and  trailed  down  them, 
and  poured  out  storm  torrents  on  them,  and  thundered 
against  them,  and  darted  forked  lightnings  round  them. 
But  the  mountains  stood  there  afterwards  as  if  such 
things  had  not  been  and  were  not  in  the  world.  Winds 
roared  and  tore  at  them,  centuries  passed  over  them  — 
centuries  of  millions  of  lives,  of  changing  of  kingdoms 
and  empires,  of  battles  and  world-wide  fame  which 
grew  and  died  and  passed  away ;  and  temples  crumbled, 
and  king's  tombs  were  forgotten,  and  cities  were  buried 
and  others  built  over  them  after  hundreds  of  years  ■ — 
and  perhaps  a  few  stones  fell  from  a  mountain  side,  or 
a  fissure  was  worn,  which  the  people  below  could  not 
even  see.  And  that  was  all.  There  they  stood,  and 
perhaps  their  secret  was  that  they  had  been  there  for 
ever  and  ever  and  ever.  That  was  what  the  mountains 
said  to  Marco,  which  was  why  he  did  not  want  to  talk 
much,  but  sat  and  gazed  out  of  the  carriage  window. 

The  Rat  had  been  very  silent  all  the  morning.  He 
had  been  silent  when  they  got  up,  and  he  had  scarcely 
spoken  when  they  made  their  way  to  the  station  at 
Munich  and  sat  waiting  for  their  train.  It  seemed  to 
Marco  that  he  was  thinking  so  hard  that  he  was  like  a 
269 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

person  who  was  far  away  from  the  place  he  stood  in. 
His  brows  were  drawn  together  and  his  eyes  did  not 
seem  to  see  the  people  who  passed  by.  Usually  he  saw 
everything  and  made  shrewd  remarks  on  almost  all  he 
saw.  But  to-day  he  was  somehow  otherwise  absorbed. 
He  sat  in  the  train  with  his  forehead  against  the  win- 
dow and  stared  out.  He  moved  and  gasped  when  he 
found  himself  staring  at  the  Alps,  but  afterwards  he 
was  even  strangely  still.  It  was  not  until  after  the 
sleepy  old  peasant  had  gathered  his  bundles  and  got  out 
at  a  station  that  he  spoke,  and  he  did  it  without  turning 
his  head. 

"  You  only  told  me  one  of  the  two  laws,"  he  said. 
"  What  was  the  other  one?  " 

Marco  brought  himself  back  from  his  dream  of 
reaching  the  highest  mountain-top  and  seeing  clouds 
float  beneath  his  feet  in  the  sun.  He  had  to  come  back 
a  long  way. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  that?  I  wondered  what  you 
had  been  thinking  of  all  the  morning,"  he  said. 

"  I  could  n't  stop  thinking  of  it.  What  was  the 
second  one  ?  "  said  The  Rat,  but  he  did  not  turn  his 
head. 

"  It  was  called  the  Law  of  Earthly  Living.  It  was 
for  every  day,"  said  Marco.  "  It  was  for  the  ordering 
of  common  things  —  the  small  things  we  think  don't 
matter,  as  well  as  the  big  ones.  I  always  remember 
that  one  without  any  trouble.     This  was  it : 

"'Let  pass  through  thy  mind,  my  son,  only  the 
270 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

image  thou  wouldst  desire  to  see  become  a  truth. 
Meditate  only  upon  the  wish  of  thy  heart  —  seeing 
first  that  it  is  such  as  can  wrong  no  man  and  is  not 
ignoble.  Then  will  it  take  earthly  form  and  draw 
near  to  thee. 

" '  This  is  the  Law  of  That  which  Creates.'  " 

Then  The  Rat  turned  round.  He  had  a  shrewdly 
reasoning  mind. 

"  That  sounds  as  if  you  could  get  anything  you 
wanted,  if  you  think  about  it  long  enough  and  in  the 
right  way,"  he  said.  "  But  perhaps  it  only  means  that, 
if  you  do  it,  you  '11  be  happy  after  you  're  dead.  My 
father  used  to  shout  with  laughing  when  he  was  drunk 
and  talked  about  things  like  that  and  looked  at  his 
rags." 

He  hugged  his  knees  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was 
remembering  the  rags,  and  the  fog-darkened  room  in 
the  slums,  and  the  loud,  hideous  laughter. 

"  What  if  you  want  something  that  will  harm  some- 
body else  ?  "  he  said  next.  "  What  if  you  hate  some 
one  and  wish  you  could  kill  him?  " 

"  That  was  one  of  the  questions  my  father  asked 
that  night  on  the  ledge.  The  holy  man  said  people  al- 
ways asked  it,"  Marco  answered.  "  This  was  the  an- 
swer : 

" '  Let  him  who  stretcheth  forth  his  hand  to  draw 
the  lightning  to  his  brother  recall  that  through  his  own 
soul  and  body  will  pass  the  bolt/  " 

"Wonder  if  there's  anything  in  it?"  The  Rat 
271 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

pondered.  "  It  'd  make  a  chap  careful  if  he  believed 
it !  Revenging  yourself  on  a  man  would  be  like  hold- 
ing him  against  a  live  wire  to  kill  him  and  getting  all 
the  volts  through  yourself." 

A  sudden  anxiety  revealed  itself  in  his  face. 

"Does  your  father  believe  it?"  he  asked.  "Does 
he?" 

"  He  knows  it  is  true,"  Marco  said. 

"  I  '11  own  up,"  The  Rat  decided  after  further  reflec- 
tion — "  I  '11  own  up  I  'm  glad  that  there  is  n't  any  one 
left  that  I  've  a  grudge  against.  There  is  n't  any  one 
—  now." 

Then  he  fell  again  into  silence  and  did  not  speak 
until  their  journey  was  at  an  end.  As  they  arrived 
early  in  the  day,  they  had  plenty  of  time  to  wander 
about  the  marvelous  little  old  city.  But  through  the 
wide  streets  and  through  the  narrow  ones,  under  the 
archways  into  the  market  gardens,  across  the  bridge 
and  into  the  square  where  the  "  glockenspiel "  played 
its  old  tinkling  tune,  everywhere  the  Citadel  looked 
down  and  always  The  Rat  walked  on  in  his  dream. 

They  found  the  hair-dresser's  shop  in  one  of  the 
narrow  streets.  There  were  no  grand  shops  there, 
and  this  particular  shop  was  a  modest  one.  They 
walked  past  it  once,  and  then  went  back.  It  was  a 
shop  so  humble  that  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
two  common  boys  going  into  it  to  have  their  hair  cut. 
An  old  man  came  forward  to  receive  them.  He  was 
evidently  glad  of  their  modest  patronage.  He  under- 
272 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

took  to  attend  to  The  Rat  himself,  but,  having  ar- 
ranged him  in  a  chair,  he  turned  about  and  called  to 
some  one  in  the  back  room. 

"  Heinrich,"  he  said. 

In  the  slit  in  Marco's  sleeve  was  the  sketch  of  the 
man  with  smooth  curled  hair,  who  looked  like  a  hair- 
dresser. They  had  found  a  corner  in  which  to  take 
their  final  look  at  it  before  they  turned  back  to  come 
in.  Heinrich,  who  came  forth  from  the  small  back 
room,  had  smooth  curled  hair.  He  looked  extremely 
like  a  hair-dresser.  He  had  features  like  those  in 
the  sketch  —  his  nose  and  mouth  and  chin  and  figure 
were  like  what  Marco  had  drawn  and  committed  to 
memory.     But  — 

He  gave  Marco  a  chair  and  tied  the  professional 
white  covering  around  his  neck.  Marco  leaned  back 
and  closed  his  eyes  a  moment. 

"  That  is  not  the  man !  "  he  was  saying  to  himself. 
"  He  is  not  the  man." 

How  he  knew  he  was  not,  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained, but  he  felt  sure.  It  was  a  strong  conviction. 
But  for  the  sudden  feeling,  nothing  would  have  been 
easier  than  to  give  the  Sign.  And  if  he  could  not 
give  it  now,  where  was  the  one  to  whom  it  must  be 
spoken,  and  what  would  be  the  result  if  that  one  could 
not  be  found?  And  if  there  were  two  who  were  so 
much  alike,  how  could  he  be  sure? 

Each  owner  of  each  of  the  pictured  faces  was  a  link 
in  a  powerful  secret  chain;  and  if  a  link  were  missed, 
273 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  chain  would  be  broken.  Each  time  Heinrich 
came  within  the  line  of  his  vision,  he  recorded  every 
feature  afresh  and  compared  it  with  the  remembered 
sketch.  Each  time  the  resemblance  became  more  close, 
but  each  time  some  persistent  inner  conviction  re- 
peated, "  No;  the  Sign  is  not  for  him!  " 

It  was  disturbing,  also,  to  find  that  The  Rat  was 
all  at  once  as  restless  as  he  had  previously  been  silent 
and  preoccupied.  He  moved  in  his  chair,  to  the  great 
discomfort  of  the  old  hair-dresser.  He  kept  turning 
his  head  to  talk.  He  asked  Marco  to  translate  divers 
questions  he  wished  him  to  ask  the  two  men.  They 
were  questions  about  the  Citadel  —  about  the  Monchs- 
berg  —  the  Residenz  —  the  Glockenspiel  —  the  moun- 
tains. He  added  one  query  to  another  and  could  not 
sit  still. 

"  The  young  gentleman  will  get  an  ear  snipped," 
said  the  old  man  to  Marco.  "  And  it  will  not  be  my 
fault" 

"  What  shall  I  do?  "  Marco  was  thinking.  "  He  is 
not  the  man." 

He  did  not  give  the  Sign.  He  must  go  away  and 
think  it  out,  though  where  his  thoughts  would  lead  him 
he  did  not  know.  This  was  a  more  difficult  problem 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  facing.  There  was  no 
one  to  ask  advice  of.  Only  himself  and  The  Rat, 
who  was  nervously  wriggling  and  twisting  in  his 
chair. 

"  You  must  sit  still,"  he  said  to  him.  "  The  hair- 
274 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

dresser  is  afraid  you  will  make  him  cut  you  by  ac- 
cident" 

"  But  I  want  to  know  who  lives  at  the  Residenz  ?  " 
said  The  Rat.  "  These  men  can  tell  us  things  if  you 
ask  them." 

"  It  is  done  now,"  said  the  old  hair-dresser  with  a 
relieved  air.  "  Perhaps  the  cutting  of  his  hair  makes 
the  young  gentleman  nervous.     It  is  sometimes  so." 

The  Rat  stood  close  to  Marco's  chair  and  asked 
questions  until  Heinrich  also  had  done  his  work. 
Marco  could  not  understand  his  companion's  change 
of  mood.  He  realized  that,  if  he  had  wished  to  give 
the  Sign,  he  had  been  allowed  no  opportunity.  He 
could  not  have  given  it.  The  restless  questioning  had 
so  directed  the  older  man's  attention  to  his  son  and 
Marco  that  nothing  could  have  been  said  to  Heinrich 
without  his  observing  it 

"  I  could  not  have  spoken  if  he  had  been  the  man," 
Marco  said  to  himself. 

Their  very  exit  from  the  shop  9eemed  a  little  hur- 
ried. When  they  were  fairly  in  the  street  The  Rat 
made  a  clutch  at  Marco's  arm. 

"  You  did  n't  give  it  ?  "  he  whispered  breathlessly. 
"  I  kept  talking  and  talking  to  prevent  you.*' 

Marco  tried  not  to  feel  breathless,  and  he  tried  to 
speak  in  a  low  and  level  voice  with  no  hint  of  exclama- 
tion in  it. 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  ?"he  asked. 

The  Rat  drew  closer  to  him. 
275 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"That  was  not  the  man!"  he  whispered.  "It 
does  n't  matter  how  much  he  looks  like  him,  he  is  n't 
the  right  one." 

He  was  pale  and  swinging  along  swiftly  as  if  he 
were  in  a  hurry. 

"Let 's  get  into  a  quiet  place,"  he  said.  "  Those 
queer  things  you  've  been  telling  me  have  got  hold 
of  me.  How  did  I  know?  How  could  I  know  — 
unless  it 's  because  I  've  been  trying  to  work  that 
second  law?  I've  been  saying  to  myself  that  we 
should  be  told  the  right  things  to  do  —  for  the  Game 
and  for  your  father  —  and  so  that  I  could  be  the  right 
sort  of  Aide-de-camp.  I  've  been  working  at  it,  and, 
when  he  came  out,  I  knew  he  was  not  the  man  in  spite 
of  his  looks.  And  I  could  n't  be  sure  you  knew,  and 
I  thought,  if  I  kept  on  talking  and  interrupting  you 
with  silly  questions,  you  could  be  prevented  from  speak- 
ing." 

"  There  's  a  place  not  far  away  where  we  can  get 
a  look  at  the  mountains.  Let's  go  there  and  sit 
down,"  said  Marco.  "  I  knew  it  was  not  the  right  one, 
too.     It's  the  Help  over  again." 

"  Yes,  it 's  the  Help  —  it 's  the  Help  —  it  must  be," 
muttered  The  Rat,  walking  fast  and  with  a  pale,  set 
face.     "  It  could  not  be  anything  else." 

They  got  away  from  the  streets  and  the  people  and 
reached  the  quiet  place  where  they  could  see  the  moun- 
tains. There  they  sat  down  by  the  wayside.  The  Rat 
took  off  his  cap  and  wiped  his  forehead,  but  it  was  not 
276 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

only   the   quick   walking   which  had   made    it    damp. 

"  The  queerness  of  it  gave  me  a  kind  of  fright," 
he  said.  "  When  he  came  out  and  he  was  near  enough 
for  me  to  see  him,  a  sudden  strong  feeling  came  over 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  I  knew  he  was  n't  the  man.  Then 
I  said  to  myself  —  '  but  he  looks  like  him  ' —  and  I  be- 
gan to  get  nervous.  And  then  I  was  sure  again  — 
and  then  I  wanted  to  try  to  stop  you  from  giving  him 
the  Sign.  And  then  it  all  seemed  foolishness  —  and 
the  next  second  all  the  things  you  had  told  me  rushed 
back  to  me  at  once  —  and  I  remembered  what  I  had 
been  thinking  ever  since  —  and  I  said  — '  Perhaps  it 's 
the  Law  beginning  to  work,'  and  the  palms  of  my 
hands  got  moist." 

Marco  was  very  quiet.  He  was  looking  at  the 
farthest  and  highest  peaks  and  wondering  about  many 
things. 

"  It  was  the  expression  of  his  face  that  was  dif- 
ferent," he  said.  "  And  his  eyes.  They  are  rather 
smaller  than  the  right  man's  are.  The  light  in  the 
shop  was  poor,  and  it  was  not  until  the  last  time  he 
bent  over  me  that  I  found  out  what  I  had  not  seen 
before.  His  eyes  are  gray  —  the  other  ones  are 
brown." 

"  Did  you  see  that !  "  The  Rat  exclaimed.  "  Then 
we 're  sure!     We 're  safe!" 

"  We  're  not  safe  till  we  've  found  the  right  man," 
Marco  said.  "  Where  is  he  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Where 
is  he?  " 

277 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

He  said  the  words  dreamily  and  quietly,  as  if 
he  were  lost  in  thought  —  but  also  rather  as  if  he  ex- 
pected an  answer.  And  he  still  looked  at  the  far-off 
peaks.  The  Rat,  after  watching  him  a  moment  or 
so,  began  to  look  at  them  also.  They  were  like  a 
loadstone  to  him  too.  There  was  something  stilling 
about  them,  and  when  your  eyes  had  rested  upon  them 
a  few  moments  they  did  not  want  to  move  away. 

"  There  must  be  a  ledge  up  there  somewhere/'  he 
said  at  last.  "  Let 's  go  up  and  look  for  it  and  sit 
there  and  think  and  think  —  about  finding  the  right 
man." 

There  seemed  nothing  fantastic  in  this  to  Marco. 
To  go  into  some  quiet  place  and  sit  and  think  about 
the  thing  he  wanted  to  remember  or  to  find  out  was 
an  old  way  of  his.  To  be  quiet  was  always  the  best 
thing,  his  father  had  taught  him.  It  was  like  listen- 
ing to  something  which  could  speak  without  words. 

"  There  is  a  little  train  which  goes  up  the  Gaisberg," 
he  said.  "  When  you  are  at  the  top,  a  world  of  moun- 
tains spreads  around  you.  Lazarus  went  once  and  told 
me.  And  we  can  lie  out  on  the  grass  all  night.  Let 
us  go,  Aide-de-camp." 

So  they  went,  each  one  thinking  the  same  thought, 
and  each  boy-mind  holding  its  own  vision.  Marco 
was  the  calmer  of  the  two,  because  his  belief  that  there 
was  always  help  to  be  found  was  an  accustomed  one 
and  had  ceased  to  seem  to  partake  of  the  supernatural. 
He  believed  quite  simply  that  it  was  the  working  of 
278 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

a  law,  not  the  breaking  of  one,  which  gave  answer  and 
led  him  in  his  quests.  The  Rat,  who  had  known  noth- 
ing of  laws  other  than  those  administered  by  police- 
courts,  was  at  once  awed  and  fascinated  by  the  sug- 
gestion of  crossing  some  borderland  of  the  Unknown. 
The  law  of  the  One  had  baffled  and  overthrown  him, 
with  its  sweeping  away  of  the  enmities  of  passions 
which  created  wars  and  called  for  armies.  But  the 
Law  of  Earthly  Living  seemed  to  offer  practical 
benefits  if  you  could  hold  on  to  yourself  enough  to 
work  it. 

"  You  would  n't  get  everything  for  nothing,  as  far 
as  I  can  make  out,"  he  had  said  to  Marco.  "  You  'd 
have  to  sweep  all  the  rubbish  out  of  your  mind  — 
sweep  it  as  if  you  did  it  with  a  broom  —  and  then 
keep  on  thinking  straight  and  believing  you  were  going 
to  get  things  —  and  working  for  them  —  and  they  'd 
come." 

Then  he  had  laughed  a  short  ugly  laugh  because 
he  recalled  something. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  Bible  that  my  father 
used  to  jeer  about  —  something  about  a  man  getting 
what  he  prayed  for  if  he  believed  it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it 's  there,"  said  Marco.  "  That  if  a  man 
pray  believing  he  shall  receive  what  he  asks  it  shall 
be  given  him.  All  the  books  say  something  like  it. 
It 's  been  said  so  often  it  makes  you  believe  it." 

"  He  did  n't  believe  it,  and  I  did  n't,"  said  The  Rat. 

"  Nobody  does  —  really,"  answered  Marco,  as  he 
279 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

had  done  once  before.  "  It's  because  we  don't  know." 
They  went  up  the  Gaisberg  in  the  little  train,  which 
pushed  and  dragged  and  panted  slowly  upward  with 
them.  It  took  them  with  it  stubbornly  and  gradually 
higher  and  higher  until  it  had  left  Salzburg  and  the 
Citadel  below  and  had  reached  the  world  of  mountains 
which  rose  and  spread  and  lifted  great  heads  behind 
each  other  and  beside  each  other  and  beyond  each 
other  until  there  seemed  no  other  land  on  earth  but 
that  on  mountain  sides  and  backs  and  shoulders  and 
crowns.  And  also  one  felt  the  absurdity  of  living  upon 
flat  ground,  where  life  must  be  an  insignificant  thing. 
There  were  only  a  few  sight-seers  in  the  small  car- 
riages, and  they  were  going  to  look  at  the  view  from 
the  summit.     They  were  not  in  search  of  a  ledge. 

The  Rat  and  Marco  were.  When  the  little  train 
stopped  at  the  top,  they  got  out  with  the  rest.  They 
wandered  about  with  them  over  the  short  grass  on  the 
treeless  summit  and  looked  out  from  this  viewpoint 
and  the  other.  The  Rat  grew  more  and  more  silent, 
and  his  silence  was  not  merely  a  matter  of  speechless- 
ness but  of  expression.  He  looked  silent  and  as  if  he 
were  no  longer  aware  of  the  earth.  They  left  the 
sight-seers  at  last  and  wandered  away  by  themselves. 
They  found  a  ledge  where  they  could  sit  or  lie  and 
where  even  the  world  of  mountains  seemed  below  them. 
They  had  brought  some  simple  food  with  them,  and 
they  laid  it  behind  a  jutting  bit  of  rock.  When  the 
sight-seers  boarded  the  laboring  little  train  again  and 
280 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

were  dragged  back  down  the  mountain,  their  night 
of  vigil  would  begin. 

That  was  what  it  was  to  be.  A  night  of  stillness 
on  the  heights,  where  they  could  wait  and  watch  and 
hold  themselves  ready  to  hear  any  thought  which  spoke 
to  them. 

The  Rat  was  so  thrilled  that  he  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  he  had  heard  a  voice  from  the  place 
of  the  stars.  But  Marco  only  believed  that  in  this 
great  stillness  and  beauty,  if  he  held  his  boy-soul  quiet 
enough,  he  should  find  himself  at  last  thinking  of  some- 
thing that  would  lead  him  to  the  place  which  held 
what  it  was  best  that  he  should  find.  The  people  re- 
turned to  the  train  and  it  set  out  upon  its  way  down 
the  steepness. 

They  heard  it  laboring  on  its  way,  as  though  it 
was  forced  to  make  as  much  effort  to  hold  itself  back 
as  it  had  made  to  drag  itself  upward. 

Then  they  were  alone,  and  it  was  a  loneness  such 
as  an  eagle  might  feel  when  it  held  itself  poised  high 
in  the  curve  of  blue.  And  they  sat  and  watched. 
They  saw  the  sun  go  down  and,  shade  by  shade,  deepen 
and  make  radiant  and  then  draw  away  with  it  the 
last  touches  of  color  —  rose-gold,  rose-purple,  and 
rose-gray.  One  mountain  top  after  another  held  its 
blush  a  few  moments  and  lost  it.  It  took  long  to 
gather  them  all  but  at  length  they  were  gone  and  the 
marvel  of  night  fell. 

The  breath  of  the  forests  below  was  sweet  about 
281 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

them,  and  soundlessness  enclosed  them  which  was  of 
unearthly  peace.  The  stars  began  to  show  themselves, 
and  presently  the  two  who  waited  found  their  faces 
turned  upward  to  the  sky  and  they  both  were  speak- 
ing in  whispers. 

"  The  stars  look  large  here,"  The  Rat  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marco.  "  We  are  not  as  high  as 
the  Buddhist  was,  but  it  seems  like  the  top  of  the 
world." 

"  There  is  a  light  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  yonder 
which  is  not  a  star,"  The  Rat  whispered. 

"  It  is  a  light  in  a  hut  where  the  guides  take  the 
climbers  to  rest  and  to  spend  the  night,"  answered 
Marco. 

"  It  is  so  still,"  The  Rat  whispered  again  after  a 
silence,  and  Marco  whispered  back: 

"  It  is  so  still." 

They  had  eaten  their  meal  of  black  bread  and  cheese 
after  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  now  they  lay  down 
on  their  backs  and  looked  up  until  the  first  few  stars 
had  multiplied  themselves  into  myriads.  They  began 
a  little  low  talk,  but  the  soundlessness  was  stronger 
than  themselves. 

"  How  am  I  going  to  hold  on  to  that  second  law  ?  " 
The  Rat  said  restlessly.  "  '  Let  pass  through  thy  mind 
only  the  image  thou  wouldst  see  become  a  truth.' 
The  things  that  are  passing  through  my  mind  are  not 
the  things  I  want  to  come  true.  What  if  we  don't 
find  him  —  don't  find  the  right  one,  I  mean !  " 
282 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

"  Lie  still  —  still  —  and  look  up  at  the  stars," 
whispered  Marco.     "  They  give  you  a  sure  feeling." 

There  was  something  in  the  curious  serenity  of  him 
which  calmed  even  his  Aide-de-camp.  The  Rat  lay 
still  and  looked  —  and  looked  —  and  thought.  And 
what  he  thought  of  was  the  desire  of  his  heart.  The 
soundlessness  enwrapped  him  and  there  was  no  world 
left.  That  there  was  a  spark  of  light  in  the  mountain- 
climbers'  rest-hut  was  a  thing  forgotten. 

They  were  only  two  boys,  and  they  had  begun  their 
journey  on  the  earliest  train  and  had  been  walking 
about  all  day  and  thinking  of  great  and  anxious  things. 

"  It  is  so  still,"  The  Rat  whispered  again  at  last. 

"  It  is  so  still,"  whispered  Marco. 

And  the  mountains  rising  behind  each  other  and 
beside  each  other  and  beyond  each  other  in  the  night, 
and  also  the  myriads  of  stars  which  had  so  multiplied 
themselves,  looking  down  knew  that  they  were  asleep 
—  as  sleep  the  human  things  which  do  not  watch 
forever. 

"  Some  one  is  smoking,"  Marco  found  himself  say- 
ing in  a  dream.  After  which  he  awakened  and  found 
that  the  smoke  was  not  part  of  a  dream  at  all.  It 
came  from  the  pipe  of  a  young  man  who  had  an  alpen- 
stock and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  climbed  to  see  the 
sun  rise.  He  wore  the  clothes  of  a  climber  and  a  green 
hat  with  a  tuft  at  the  back.  He  looked  down  at  the 
two  boys,  surprised. 

283 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Good  day,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  sleep  here  so 
that  you  could  see  the  sun  get  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marco. 

"  Were  you  cold?  " 

"  We  slept  too  soundly  to  know.  And  we  brought 
our  thick  coats." 

"  I  slept  half-way  down  the  mountain,"  said  the 
smoker.  "lama  guide  in  these  days,  but  I  have  not 
been  one  long  enough  to  miss  a  sunrise  it  is  no  work  to 
reach.  My  father  and  brother  think  I  am  mad  about 
such  things.  They  would  rather  stay  in  their  beds. 
Oh !  he  is  awake,  is  he  ?  "  turning  toward  The  Rat, 
who  had  risen  on  one  elbow  and  was  staring  at  him. 
"What  is  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you  were 
afraid  of  me." 

Marco  did  not  wait  for  The  Rat  to  recover  his 
breath  and  speak. 

"  I  know  why  he  looks  at  you  so,"  he  answered  for 
him.  "  He  is  startled.  Yesterday  we  went  to  a 
hair-dresser's  shop  down  below  there,  and  we  saw  a 
man  who  was  almost  exactly  like  you  —  only  —  "he 
added,  looking  up,  "  his  eyes  were  gray  and  yours 
are  brown." 

"  He  was  my  twin  brother,"  said  the  guide,  puffing 
at  his  pipe  cheerfully.  "  My  father  thought  he  could 
make  hair-dressers  of  us  both,  and  I  tried  it  for  four 
years.  But  I  always  wanted  to  be  climbing  the  moun- 
tains and  there  were  not  holidays  enough.  So  I  cut 
my  hair,  and  washed  the  pomade  out  of  it,  and  broke 
284 


A  NIGHT  VIGIL 

away.     I  don't  look  like  a  hair-dresser  now,  do  I  ?  " 

He  did  not.  Not  at  all.  But  Marco  knew  him. 
He  was  the  man.  There  was  no  one  on  the  moun- 
tain top  but  themselves,  and  the  sun  was  just  show- 
ing a  rim  of  gold  above  the  farthest  and  highest  giants' 
shoulders.  One  need  not  be  afraid  to  do  anything, 
since  there  was  no  one  to  see  or  hear.  Marco  slipped 
the  sketch  out  of  the  slit  in  his  sleeve.  He  looked  at 
it  and  he  looked  at  the  guide,  and  then  he  showed  it 
to  him. 

"  That  is  not  your  brother.     It  is  you !  "  he  said. 

The  man's  face  changed  a  little  —  more  than  any 
other  face  had  changed  when  its  owner  had  been  spoken 
to.  On  a  mountain  top  as  the  sun  rises  one  is  not 
afraid. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted,"  said  Marco.  "  The  Lamp 
is  lighted." 

"  God  be  thanked !  "  burst  forth  the  man.  And  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  bared  his  head.  Then  the  rim 
behind  the  mountain's  shoulder  leaped  forth  into  a 
golden  torrent  of  splendor. 

And  The  Rat  stood  up,  resting  his  weight  on  his 
crutches  in  utter  silence,  and  stared  and  stared. 

"  That  is  three!  "  said  Marco. 


285 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   SILVER    HORN 

DURING  the  next  week,  which  they  spent  in  jour- 
neying towards  Vienna,  they  gave  the  Sign  to 
three  different  persons  at  places  which  were  on  the 
way.  In  a  village  across  the  frontier  in  Bavaria  they 
found  a  giant  of  an  old  man  sitting  on  a  bench  under 
a  tree  before  his  mountain  "  Gasthaus "  or  inn ;  and 
when  the  four  words  were  uttered,  he  stood  up  and 
bared  his  head  as  the  guide  had  done.  When  Marco 
gave  the  Sign  in  some  quiet  place  to  a  man  who  was 
alone,  he  noticed  that  they  all  did  this  and  said  their 
"  God  be  thanked  "  devoutly,  as  if  it  were  part  of  some 
religious  ceremony.  In  a  small  town  a  few  miles  away 
he  had  to  search  some  hours  before  he  found  a  stal- 
wart young  shoemaker  with  bright  red  hair  and  a 
horseshoe-shaped  scar  on  his  forehead.  He  was  not 
in  his  workshop  when  the  boys  first  passed  it,  because, 
as  they  found  out  later,  he  had  been  climbing  a  moun- 
tain the  day  before,  and  had  been  detained  in  the  de- 
scent because  his  companion  had  hurt  himself. 

When  Marco  went  in  and  asked  him  to  measure  him 
for  a  pair  of  shoes,  he  was  quite  friendly  and  told 
them  all  about  it. 

"  There  are  some  good  fellows  who  should  not 
286 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

climb,"  he  said.  "  When  they  find  themselves  standing 
on  a  bit  of  rock  jutting  out  over  emptiness,  their  heads 
begin  to  whirl  round  —  and  then,  if  they  don't  turn 
head  over  heels  a  few  thousand  feet,  it  is  because  some 
comrade  is  near  enough  to  drag  them  back.  There 
can  be  no  ceremony  then  and  they  sometimes  get  hurt 
—  as  my  friend  did  yesterday." 

"  Did  you  never  get  hurt  yourself  ?  "  The  Rat  asked. 

"  When  I  was  eight  years  old  I  did  that,"  said  the 
young  shoemaker,  touching  the  scar  on  his  forehead. 
"  But  it  was  not  much.  My  father  was  a  guide  and 
took  me  with  him.  He  wanted  me  to  begin  early. 
There  is  nothing  like  it  —  climbing.  I  shall  be  at  it 
again.  This  won't  do  for  me.  I  tried  shoemaking 
because  I  was  in  love  with  a  girl  who  wanted  me  to 
stay  at  home.  She  married  another  man.  I  am  glad 
of  it.  Once  a  guide,  always  a  guide."  He  knelt  down 
to  measure  Marco's  foot,  and  Marco  bent  a  little  for- 
ward. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  shop,  but  the  door  was  open 
and  people  were  passing  in  the  narrow  street;  so  the 
shoemaker  did  not  lift  his  red  head.  He  went  on 
measuring. 

"  God  be  thanked!  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Do 
you  want  these  shoes  really,  or  did  you  only  want  me 
to  take  your  measure?  " 

"  I  cannot  wait  until  they  are  made,"  Marco  an- 
swered.    "  I  must  go  on." 

287 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Yes,  you  must  go  on,"  answered  the  shoemaker. 
"  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  —  I  '11  make  them  and 
keep  them.  Some  great  day  might  come  when  I  shall 
show  them  to  people  and  swagger  about  them."  He 
glanced  round  cautiously,  and  then  ended,  still  bend- 
ing over  his  measuring.  "  They  will  be  called  the 
shoes  of  the  Bearer  of  the  Sign.  And  I  shall  say, 
*  He  was  only  a  lad.  This  was  the  size  of  his  foot.'  " 
Then  he  stood  up  with  a  great  smile. 

"  There  '11  be  climbing  enough  to  be  done  now,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  look  to  see  you  again  somewhere." 

When  the  boys  went  away,  they  talked  it  over. 

"  The  hair-dresser  did  n't  want  to  be  a  hair-dresser, 
and  the  shoemaker  did  n't  want  to  make  shoes,"  said 
The  Rat.  "  They  both  wanted  to  be  mountain-climb- 
ers. There  are  mountains  in  Samavia  and  mountains 
on  the  way  to  it.  You  showed  them  to  me  on  the 
map." 

"  Yes ;  and  secret  messengers  who  can  climb  any- 
where, and  cross  dangerous  places,  and  reconnoiter 
from  points  no  one  else  can  reach,  can  find  out  things 
and  give  signals  other  men  cannot,"  said  Marco. 

"  That 's  what  I  thought  out,"  The  Rat  answered. 
"  That  was  what  he  meant  when  he  said,  '  There  will 
be  climbing  enough  to  be  done  now.'  " 

Strange  were  the  places  they  went  to  and  curiously 
unlike  each  other  were  the  people  to  whom  they  car- 
ried their  message.  The  most  singular  of  all  was  an 
old  woman  who  lived  in  so  remote  a  place  that  the 
288 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

road  which  wound  round  and  round  the  mountain, 
wound  round  it  for  miles  and  miles.  It  was  not  a  bad 
road  and  it  was  an  amazing  one  to  travel,  dragged  in  a 
small  cart  by  a  mule,  when  one  could  be  dragged,  and 
clambering  slowly  with  rests  between  when  one  could 
not:  the  tree-covered  precipices  one  looked  down,  the 
tossing  whiteness  of  waterfalls,  or  the  green  foaming 
of  rushing  streams,  and  the  immensity  of  farm-  and 
village-scattered  plains  spreading  themselves  to  the  feet 
of  other  mountains  shutting  them  in  were  breath-taking 
beauties  to  look  down  on,  as  the  road  mounted  and 
wound  round  and  round  and  higher  and  higher. 

"  How  can  any  one  live  higher  than  this?  "  said  The 
Rat  as  they  sat  on  the  thick  moss  by  the  wayside  after 
the  mule  and  cart  had  left  them.  "  Look  at  the  bare 
crags  looming  up  above  there.  Let  us  look  at  her 
again.  Her  picture  looked  as  if  she  were  a  hundred 
years  old." 

Marco  took  out  his  hidden  sketch.  It  seemed  surely 
one  of  the  strangest  things  in  the  world  that  a  creature 
as  old  as  this  one  seemed  could  reach  such  a  place,  or, 
having  reached  it,  could  ever  descend  to  the  world 
again  to  give  aid  to  any  person  or  thing. 

Her  old  face  was  crossed  and  recrossed  with  a  thou- 
sand wrinkles.  Her  profile  was  splendid  yet  and  she 
had  been  a  beauty  in  her  day.  Her  eyes  were  like  an 
eagle's  —  and  not  an  old  eagle's.  And  she  had  a  long 
neck  which  held  her  old  head  high. 

"  How  could  she  get  here?  "  exclaimed  The  Rat. 
280 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Those  who  sent  us  know,  though  we  don't,"  said 
Marco.  "  Will  you  sit  here  and  rest  while  I  go  on 
further?" 

"No!"  The  Rat  answered  stubbornly.  "I  didn't 
train  myself  to  stay  behind.  But  we  shall  come  to 
bare-rock  climbing  soon  and  then  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
stop,"  and  he  said  the  last  bitterly.  He  knew  that,  if 
Marco  had  come  alone,  he  would  have  ridden  in  no 
cart  but  would  have  trudged  upward  and  onward  stur- 
dily to  the  end  of  his  journey. 

But  they  did  not  reach  the  crags,  as  they  had  thought 
must  be  inevitable.  Suddenly  half-way  to  the  sky,  as 
it  seemed,  they  came  to  a  bend  in  the  road  and  found 
themselves  mounting  into  a  new  green  world  —  an  as- 
tonishing marvel  of  a  world,  with  green  velvet  slopes 
and  soft  meadows  and  thick  woodland,  and  cows  feed- 
ing in  velvet  pastures,  and  —  as  if  it  had  been  snowed 
down  from  the  huge  bare  mountain  crags  which  still 
soared  above  into  heaven  —  a  mysterious,  ancient, 
huddled  village  which,  being  thus  snowed  down,  might 
have  caught  among  the  rocks  and  rested  there  through 
all  time. 

There  it  stood.  There  it  huddled  itself.  And  the 
monsters  in  the  blue  above  it  themselves  looked  down 
upon  it  as  if  it  were  an  incredible  thing  —  this  ancient, 
steep-roofed,  hanging-balconied,  crumbling  cluster  of 
human  nests,  which  seemed  a  thousand  miles  from  the 
world.  Marco  and  The  Rat  stood  and  stared  at  it. 
Then  they  sat  down  and  stared  at  it. 
290 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

"  How  did  it  get  here?  "  The  Rat  cried. 

Marco  shook  his  head.  He  certainly  could  see  no 
explanation  of  its  being  there.  Perhaps  some  of  the 
oldest  villages  could  tell  stories  of  how  its  first  chalets 
had  gathered  themselves  together. 

An  old  peasant  driving  a  cow  came  down  a  steep 
path.  He  looked  with  a  dull  curiosity  at  The  Rat 
and  his  crutches ;  but  when  Marco  advanced  and  spoke 
to  him  in  German,  he  did  not  seem  to  understand,  but 
shook  his  head  saying  something  in  a  sort  of  dialect 
Marco  did  not  know. 

"  If  they  all  speak  like  that,  we  shall  have  to  make 
signs  when  we  want  to  ask  anything,"  The  Rat  said. 
"  What  will  she  speak  ?  " 

"  She  will  know  the  German  for  the  Sign  or  we 
should  not  have  been  sent  here,"  answered  Marco. 
"  Come  on." 

They  made  their  way  to  the  village,  which  huddled 
itself  together  evidently  with  the  object  of  keeping  it- 
self warm  when  through  the  winter  months  the  snows 
strove  to  bury  it  and  the  winds  roared  down  from  the 
huge  mountain  crags  and  tried  to  tear  it  from  among 
its  rocks.  The  doors  and  windows  were  few  and 
small,  and  glimpses  of  the  inside  of  the  houses  showed 
earthen  floors  and  dark  rooms.  It  was  plain  that  it 
was  counted  a  more  comfortable  thing  to  live  without 
light  than  to  let  in  the  cold. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  reconnoiter.  The  few  people 
they  saw  were  evidently  not  surprised  that  strangers 
291 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

who  discovered  their  unexpected  existence  should  be 
curious  and  want  to  look  at  them  and  their  houses. 

The  boys  wandered  about  as  if  they  were  casual  ex- 
plorers, who  having  reached  the  place  by  chance  were 
interested  in  all  they  saw.  They  went  into  the  little 
Gasthaus  and  got  some  black  bread  and  sausage  and 
some  milk.  The  mountaineer  owner  was  a  brawny 
fellow  who  understood  some  German.  He  told  them 
that  few  strangers  knew  of  the  village  but  that  bold 
hunters  and  climbers  came  for  sport.  In  the  forests  on 
the  mountain-sides  were  bears  and,  in  the  high  places, 
chamois.  Now  and  again,  some  great  gentlemen  came 
with  parties  of  the  daring  kind  —  very  great  gentlemen 
indeed,  he  said,  shaking  his  head  with  pride.  There 
was  one  who  had  castles  in  other  mountains,  but  he 
liked  best  to  come  here. 

Marco  began  to  wonder  if  several  strange  things 
might  not  be  true  if  great  gentlemen  sometimes  climbed 
to  the  mysterious  place.  But  he  had  not  been  sent  to 
give  the  Sign  to  a  great  gentleman.  He  had  been  sent 
to  give  it  to  an  old  woman  with  eyes  like  an  eagle 
which  was  young. 

He  had  a  sketch  in  his  sleeve,  with  that  of  her  face, 
of  her  steep-roofed,  black-beamed,  balconied  house. 
If  they  walked  about  a  little,  they  would  be  sure  to  come 
upon  it  in  this  tiny  place.  Then  he  could  go  in  and 
ask  her  for  a  drink  of  water. 

They  roamed  about  for  an  hour  after  they  left  the 
Gasthaus.  They  went  into  the  little  church  and  looked 
292 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

at  the  graveyard  and  wondered  if  it  was  not  buried  out 
of  all  sight  in  the  winter.  After  they  had  done  this, 
they  sauntered  out  and  walked  through  the  huddled 
clusters  of  houses,  examining  each  one  as  they  drew 
near  it  and  passed. 

"  I  see  it !  "  The  Rat  exclaimed  at  last.  "  It  is  that 
very  old-looking  one  standing  a  little  way  from  the 
rest.  It  is  not  as  tumbled  down  as  most  of  them. 
And  there  are  some  red  flowers  on  the  balcony." 

"  Yes !     That 's  it !  "  said  Marco. 

They  walked  up  to  the  low  black  door  and,  as  he 
stopped  on  the  threshold,  Marco  took  off  his  cap.  He 
did  this  because,  sitting  in  the  doorway  on  a  low 
wooden  chair,  the  old,  old  woman  with  the  eagle  eyes 
was  sitting  knitting. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room  and  no  one  any- 
where within  sight.  When  the  old,  old  woman  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  young  eagle's  eyes,  holding  her  head 
high  on  her  long  neck,  Marco  knew  he  need  not  ask  for 
water  or  for  anything  else. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted,"  he  said,  in  his  low  but  strong 
and  clear  young  voice. 

She  dropped  her  knitting  upon  her  knees  and  gazed 
at  him  a  moment  in  silence.  She  knew  German  it  was 
clear,  for  it  was  in  German  she  answered  him. 

"  God  be  thanked !  "  she  said.  "  Come  in,  young 
Bearer  of  the  Sign,  and  bring  your  friend  in  with  you. 
I  live  alone  and  not  a  soul  is  within  hearing." 

She  was  a  wonderful  old  woman.  Neither  Marco 
293 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

nor  The  Rat  would  live  long  enough  to  forget  the  hours 
they  spent  in  her  strange  dark  house.  She  kept  them 
and  made  them  spend  the  night  with  her. 

"  It  is  quite  safe,"  she  said.  "  I  live  alone  since  my 
man  fell  into  the  crevasse  and  was  killed  because  his 
rope  broke  when  he  was  trying  to  save  his  comrade. 
So  I  have  two  rooms  to  spare  and  sometimes  climbers 
are  glad  to  sleep  in  them.  Mine  is  a  good  warm  house 
and  I  am  well  known  in  the  village.  You  are  very 
young,"  she  added  shaking  her  head.  "  You  are  very 
young.  You  must  have  good  blood  in  your  veins  to  be 
trusted  with  this." 

"  I  have  my  father's  blood,"  answered  Marco. 

"  You  are  like  some  one  I  once  saw,"  the  old  woman 
said,  and  her  eagle  eyes  set  themselves  hard  upon  him. 
"  Tell  me  your  name." 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  tell  it  to  her. 

"  It  is  Marco  Loristan,"  he  said. 

"  What !  It  is  that !  "  she  cried  out,  not  loud  but 
low. 

To  Marco's  amazement  she  got  up  from  her  chair 
and  stood  before  him,  showing  what  a  tall  old  woman 
she  really  was.  There  was  a  startled,  even  an  agitated, 
look  in  her  face.  And  suddenly  she  actually  made  a 
sort  of  curtsey  to  him  —  bending  her  knee  as  peasants 
do  when  they  pass  a  shrine. 

"  Is  it  that !  "  she  said  again.     "  And  yet  they  dare 
let  you  go  on  a  journey  like  this!     That  speaks  for 
your  courage  and  for  theirs." 
294 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

But  Marco  did  not  know  what  she  meant.  Her 
strange  obeisance  made  him  feel  awkward.  He  stood 
up  because  his  training  had  told  him  that  when  a 
woman  stands  a  man  also  rises. 

"  The  name  speaks  for  the  courage,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause it  is  my  father's." 

She  watched  him  almost  anxiously. 

"  You  do  not  even  know !  "  she  breathed  —  and  it 
was  an  exclamation  and  not  a  question. 

"  I  know  what  I  have  been  told  to  do,"  he  answered. 
"  I  do  not  ask  anything  else." 

"  Who  is  that?  "  she  asked,  pointing  to  The  Rat. 

"  He  is  the  friend  my  father  sent  with  me,"  said 
Marco  smiling.  "  He  called  him  my  Aide-de-camp. 
It  was  a  sort  of  joke  because  we  had  played  soldiers  to- 
gether." 

It  seemed  as  if  she  were  obliged  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  She  stood  with  her  hand  at  her  mouth,  look- 
ing down  at  the  earth  floor. 

"  God  guard  you !  "  she  said  at  last.  "  You  are 
very  —  very  young !  " 

"  But  all  his  years,"  The  Rat  broke  in,  "  he  has  been 
in  training  for  just  this  thing.  He  did  not  know 
it  was  training,  but  it  was.  A  soldier  who  had 
been  trained  for  thirteen  years  would  know  his 
work." 

He  was  so  eager  that  he  forgot  she  could  not  under- 
stand English.     Marco  translated  what  he  said  into 
German  and  added :     "  What  he  says  is  true." 
295 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

She  nodded  her  head,  still  with  questioning  and 
anxious  eyes. 

"  Yes.  Yes,"  she  muttered.  "  But  you  are  very 
young."     Then  she  asked  in  a  hesitating  way : 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  until  I  do  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Marco.  "  I  would  not  sit  while 
my  mother  or  grandmother  stood." 

"  Then  I  must  sit  —  and  forget,"  she  said. 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  face  as  though  she 
were  sweeping  away  the  sudden  puzzled  trouble  in  her 
expression.  Then  she  sat  down,  as  if  she  had  obliged 
herself  to  become  again  the  old  peasant  she  had  been 
when  they  entered. 

"  All  the  way  up  the  mountain  you  wondered  why  an 
old  woman  should  be  given  the  Sign,"  she  said.  "  You 
asked  each  other  how  she  could  be  of  use." 

Neither  Marco  nor  The  Rat  said  anything. 

"  When  I  was  young  and  fresh,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
went  to  a  castle  over  the  frontier  to  be  foster-mother  to 
a  child  who  was  born  a  great  noble  —  one  who  was 
near  the  throne.  He  loved  me  and  I  loved  him.  He 
was  a  strong  child  and  he  grew  up  a  great  hunter  and 
climber.  When  he  was  not  ten  years  old,  my  man 
taught  him  to  climb.  He  always  loved  these  moun- 
tains better  than  his  own.  He  comes  to  see  me  as  if 
he  were  only  a  young  mountaineer.  He  sleeps  in  the 
room  there,"  with  a  gesture  over  her  shoulder  into  the 
darkness.  "  He  has  great  power  and,  if  he  chooses 
to  do  a  thing,  he  will  do  it  —  just  as  he  will  attack  the 
296 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

biggest  bear  or  climb  the  most  dangerous  peak.  He  is 
one  who  can  bring  things  about.  It  is  very  safe  to 
talk  in  this  room." 

Then  all  was  quite  clean  Marco  and  The  Rat  un- 
derstood. 

No  more  was  said  about  the  Sign.  It  had  been 
given  and  that  was  enough.  The  old  woman  told 
them  that  they  must  sleep  in  one  of  her  bedrooms. 
The  next  morning  one  of  her  neighbors  was  going 
down  to  the  valley  with  a  cart  and  he  would  help  them 
on  their  way.  The  Rat  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of 
his  crutches  and  he  became  restless. 

"  Tell  her,"  he  said  to  Marco,  "  how  I  have  trained 
myself  until  I  can  do  what  any  one  else  can.  And  tell 
her  I  am  growing  stronger  every  day.  Tell  her  I  '11 
show  her  what  I  can  do.  Your  father  would  n't  have 
let  me  come  as  your  Aide  if  I  had  n't  proved  to  him  that 
I  was  n't  a  cripple.  Tell  her.  She  thinks  I  'm  no 
use." 

Marco  explained  and  the  old  woman  listened  atten- 
tively. When  The  Rat  got  up  and  swung  himself 
about  up  and  down  the  steep  path  near  her  house  she 
seemed  relieved.  His  extraordinary  dexterity  and 
firm  swiftness  evidently  amazed  her  and  gave  her  a 
confidence  she  had  not  felt  at  first. 

"  If  he  has  taught  himself  to  be  like  that  just  for 
love  of  your  father,  he  will  go  to  the  end,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  more  than  one  could  believe,  that  a  pair  of 
crutches  could  do  such  things." 
297 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  Rat  was  pacified  and  could  afterwards  give 
himself  up  to  watching  her  as  closely  as  he  wished  to. 
He  was  soon  "  working  out "  certain  things  in  his 
mind.  What  he  watched  was  her  way  of  watching 
Marco.  It  was  as  if  she  were  fascinated  and  could 
not  keep  her  eyes  from  him.  She  told  them  stories 
about  the  mountains  and  the  strangers  who  came  to 
climb  with  guides  or  to  hunt.  She  told  them  about  the 
storms,  which  sometimes  seemed  about  to  put  an  end 
to  the  little  world  among  the  crags.  She  described  the 
winter  when  the  snow  buried  them  and  the  strong 
ones  were  forced  to  dig  out  the  weak  and  some  lived 
for  days  under  the  masses  of  soft  whiteness,  glad  to 
keep  their  cows  or  goats  in  their  rooms  that  they  might 
share  the  warmth  of  their  bodies.  The  villagers  were 
forced  to  be  good  neighbors  to  each  other,  for  the  man 
who  was  not  ready  to  dig  out  a  hidden  chimney  or 
buried  door  to-day  might  be  left  to  freeze  and  starve 
in  his  snow  tomb  next  week.  Through  the  worst  part 
of  the  winter  no  creature  from  the  world  below  could 
make  way  to  them  to  find  out  whether  they  were  all 
dead  or  alive. 

While  she  talked,  she  watched  Marco  as  if  she  were 
always  asking  herself  some  question  about  him.  The 
Rat  was  sure  that  she  liked  him  and  greatly  admired 
his  strong  body  and  good  looks.  It  was  not  necessary 
for  him  to  carry  himself  slouchingly  in  her  presence 
and  he  looked  glowing  and  noble.  There  was  a  sort 
of  reverence  in  her  manner  when  she  spoke  to  him. 
298 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

She  reminded  him  of  Lazarus  more  than  once.  When 
she  gave  them  their  evening  meal,  she  insisted  on  wait- 
ing on  him  with  a  certain  respectful  ceremony.  She 
would  not  sit  at  table  with  him,  and  The  Rat  began  to 
realize  that  she  felt  that  he  himself  should  be  standing 
to  serve  him. 

"  She  thinks  I  ought  to  stand  behind  your  chair  as 
Lazarus  stands  behind  your  father's,"  he  said  to  Marco. 
"  Perhaps  an  Aide  ought  to  do  it.  Shall  I  ?  I  believe 
it  would  please  her." 

"  A  Bearer  of  the  Sign  is  not  a  royal  person,"  an- 
swered Marco.  "  My  father  would  not  like  it  —  and 
I  should  not.     We  are  only  two  boys." 

It  was  very  wonderful  when,  after  their  supper  was 
over,  they  all  three  sat  together  before  the  fire. 

The  red  glow  of  the  bed  of  wood-coal  and  the  orange 
yellow  of  the  flame  from  the  big  logs  filled  the  room 
with  warm  light,  which  made  a  mellow  background  for 
the  figure  of  the  old  woman  as  she  sat  in  her  low  chair 
and  told  them  more  and  more  enthralling  stories. 

Her  eagle  eyes  glowed  and  her  long  neck  held  her 
head  splendidly  high  as  she  described  great  feats  of 
courage  and  endurance  or  almost  superhuman  daring 
in  aiding  those  in  awesome  peril,  and,  when  she  glowed 
most  in  the  telling,  they  always  knew  that  the  hero  of 
the  adventure  had  been  her  foster-child  who  was  the 
baby  born  a  great  noble  and  near  the  throne.  To  her, 
he  was  the  most  splendid  and  adorable  of  human  be- 
ings. Almost  an  emperor,  but  so  warm  and  tender  of 
299 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

heart  that  he  never  forgot  the  long-past  days  when  she 
had  held  him  on  her  knee  and  told  him  tales  of  chamois- 
and  bear-hunting,  and  of  the  mountain-tops  in  mid- 
winter.    He  was  her  sun-god. 

"Yes!  Yes!"  she  said.  "'Good  Mother,'  he 
calls  me.  And  I  bake  him  a  cake  on  the  hearth,  as  I 
did  when  he  was  ten  years  old  and  my  man  was  teach- 
ing him  to  climb.  And  when  he  chooses  that  a  thing 
shall  be  done  —  done  it  is !     He  is  a  great  lord." 

The  flames  had  died  down  and  only  the  big  bed  of 
red  coal  made  the  room  glow,  and  they  were  thinking 
of  going  to  bed  when  the  old  woman  started  very  sud- 
denly, turning  her  head  as  if  to  listen. 

Marco  and  The  Rat  heard  nothing,  but  they  saw  that 
she  did  and  they  sat  so  still  that  each  held  his  breath. 
So  there  was  utter  stillness  for  a  few  moments.  Utter 
stillness. 

Then  they  did  hear  something  —  a  clear  silver  sound, 
piercing  the  pure  mountain  air. 

The  old  woman  sprang  upright  with  the  fire  of  de- 
light in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  his  silver  horn !  "  she  cried  out  striking  her 
hands  together.  "  It  is  his  own  call  to  me  when  he  is 
coming.  He  has  been  hunting  somewhere  and  wants 
to  sleep  in  his  good  bed  there.  Help  me  to  put  on 
more  faggots,"  to  The  Rat,  "  so  that  he  will  see  the 
flame  of  them  through  the  open  door  as  he  comes." 

"  Shall  we  be  in  the  way  ?  "  said  Marco.  "  We  can 
go  at  once." 

300 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

She  was  going  towards  the  door  to  open  it  and  she 
stopped  a  moment  and  turned. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  said.  "  He  must  see  your  face. 
He  will  want  to  see  it.  I  want  him  to  see  —  how 
young  you  are." 

She  threw  the  door  wide  open  and  they  heard  the 
silver  horn  send  out  its  gay  call  again.  The  brushwood 
and  faggots  The  Rat  had  thrown  on  the  coals  crackled 
and  sparkled  and  roared  into  fine  flames,  which  cast 
their  light  into  the  road  and  threw  out  in  fine  relief  the 
old  figure  which  stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  so 
tall. 

And  in  but  a  few  minutes  her  great  lord  came  to 
her.  And  in  his  green  hunting-suit  with  its  green  hat 
and  eagle's  feather  he  was  as  splendid  as  she  had  said 
he  was.  He  was  big  and  royal-looking  and  laughing 
and  he  bent  and  kissed  her  as  if  he  had  been  her  own 
son. 

"  Yes,  good  Mother,"  they  heard  him  say.  "  I  want 
my  warm  bed  and  one  of  your  good  suppers.  I  sent 
the  others  to  the  Gasthaus." 

He  came  into  the  redly  glowing  room  and  his  head 
almost  touched  the  blackened  rafters.  Then  he  saw 
the  two  boys. 

"  Who  are  these,  good  Mother  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  lifted  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  They  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Sign,"  she  said  rather 
softly.     "  '  The  Lamp  is  lighted.'  " 

Then  his  whole  look  changed.  His  laughing  face 
301 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

became  quite  grave  and  for  a  moment  looked  even 
anxious.  Marco  knew  it  was  because  he  was  startled 
to  find  them  only  boys.  He  made  a  step  forward  to 
look  at  them  more  closely. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted !  And  you  two  bear  the 
Sign !  "  he  exclaimed.  Marco  stood  out  in  the  fire 
glow  that  he  might  see  him  well.  He  saluted  with  re- 
spect. 

"  My  name  is  Marco  Loristan,  Highness,"  he  said. 
"  And  my  father  sent  me." 

The  change  which  came  upon  his  face  then  was  even 
greater  than  at  first.  For  a  second,  Marco  even  felt 
that  there  was  a  flash  of  alarm  in  it.  But  almost  at 
once  that  passed. 

"  Loristan  is  a  great  man  and  a  great  patriot,"  he 
said.  "If  he  sent  you,  it  is  because  he  knows  you  are 
the  one  safe  messenger.  He  has  worked  too  long  for 
Samavia  not  to  know  what  he  does." 

Marco  saluted  again.  He  knew  what  it  was  right  to 
say  next. 

"If  we  have  your  Highness' s  permission  to  retire," 
he  said,  "  we  will  leave  you  and  go  to  bed.  We  go 
down  the  mountain  at  sunrise." 

"Where  next?"  asked  the  hunter,  looking  at  him 
with  curious  intentness. 

"  To  Vienna,  Highness,"  Marco  answered. 

His  questioner  held  out  his  hand,  still  with  the  in- 
tent interest  in  his  eyes. 

"  Good  night,  fine  lad,"  he  said.  "  Samavia  has 
302 


THE  SILVER  HORN 

need  to  vaunt  itself  on  its  Sign-bearer.     God  go  with 
you." 

He  stood  and  watched  him  as  he  went  toward  the 
room  in  which  he  and  his  Aide-de-camp  were  to  sleep. 
The  Rat  followed  him  closely.  At  the  little  back  door 
the  old,  old  woman  stood,  having  opened  it  for  them. 
As  Marco  passed  and  bade  her  good  night,  he  saw  that 
she  again  made  the  strange  obeisance,  bending  the  knee 
as  he  went  by. 


303 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"  HOW    SHALL   WE   FIND    HIM  ?  " 

IN  Vienna  they  came  upon  a  pageant.  In  celebra- 
tion of  a  century-past  victory  the  Emperor  drove 
in  state  and  ceremony  to  attend  at  the  great  cathedral 
and  to  do  honor  to  the  ancient  banners  and  laurel- 
wreathed  statue  of  a  long-dead  soldier-prince.  The 
broad  pavements  of  the  huge  chief  thoroughfare  were 
crowded  with  a  cheering  populace  watching  the  martial 
pomp  and  splendor  as  it  passed  by  with  marching  feet, 
prancing  horses,  and  glitter  of  scabbard  and  chain, 
which  all  seemed  somehow  part  of  music  in  triumphant 
bursts. 

The  Rat  was  enormously  thrilled  by  the  magnificence 
of  the  imperial  place.  Its  immense  spaces,  the  squares 
and  gardens,  reigned  over  by  statues  of  emperors,  and 
warriors,  and  queens  made  him  feel  that  all  things  on 
earth  were  possible.  The  palaces  and  stately  piles  of 
architecture,  whose  surmounting  equestrian  bronzes 
ramped  high  in  the  air  clear  cut  and  beautiful  against 
the  sky,  seemed  to  sweep  out  of  his  world  all  atmos- 
phere but  that  of  splendid  cities  down  whose  broad 
avenues  emperors  rode  with  waving  banners,  tramping, 
3°4 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?" 

jangling  soldiery  before  and  behind,  and  golden 
trumphets  blaring  forth.  It  seemed  as  if  it  must  al- 
ways be  like  this  —  that  lances  and  cavalry  and  em- 
perors would  never  cease  to  ride  by.  "  I  should  like 
to  stay  here  a  long  time,"  he  said  almost  as  if  he  were 
in  a  dream.     "  I  should  like  to  see  it  all." 

He  leaned  on  his  crutches  in  the  crowd  and  watched 
the  glitter  of  the  passing  pageant.  Now  and  then  he 
glanced  at  Marco,  who  watched  also  with  a  steady  eye 
which,  The  Rat  saw,  nothing  would  escape :  How  ab- 
sorbed he  always  was  in  the  Game !  How  impossible 
it  was  for  him  to  forget  it  or  to  remember  it  only  as  a 
boy  would !  Often  it  seemed  that  he  was  not  a  boy  at 
all.  And  the  Game,  The  Rat  knew  in  these  days,  was 
a  game  no  more  but  a  thing  of  deep  and  deadly  earnest 
—  a  thing  which  touched  kings  and  thrones,  and  con- 
cerned the  ruling  and  swaying  of  great  countries. 
And  they  —  two  lads  pushed  about  by  the  crowd  as 
they  stood  and  stared  at  the  soldiers  —  carried  with 
them  that  which  was  even  now  lighting  the  Lamp. 
The  blood  in  The  Rat's  veins  ran  quickly  and  made  him 
feel  hot  as  he  remembered  certain  thoughts  which  had 
forced  themselves  into  his  mind  during  the  past  weeks. 
As  his  brain  had  the  trick  of  "  working  things  out,"  it 
had,  during  the  last  fortnight  at  least,  been  following  a 
wonderful  even  if  rather  fantastic  and  feverish  fancy. 
A  mere  trifle  had  set  it  at  work,  but,  its  labor  once 
begun,  things  which  might  have  once  seemed  to  be 
trifles  appeared  so  no  longer.  When  Marco  was  asleep, 
305 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  Rat  lay  awake  through  thrilled  and  sometimes  al- 
most breathless  midnight  hours,  looking  backward  and 
recalling  every  detail  of  their  lives  since  they  had 
known  each  other.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that 
almost  everything  he  remembered  —  the  Game  from 
first  to  last  above  all  —  had  pointed  to  but  one  thing. 
And  then  again  he  would  all  at  once  feel  that  he  was  a 
fool  and  had  better  keep  his  head  steady.  Marco,  he 
knew,  had  no  wild  fancies.  He  had  learned  too  much 
and  his  mind  was  too  well  balanced.  He  did  not  try 
to  "  work  out  things."  He  only  thought  of  what  he 
was  under  orders  to  do. 

"  But,"  said  The  Rat  more  than  once  in  these  mid- 
night hours,  "if  it  ever  comes  to  a  draw  whether  he  is 
to  be  saved  or  I  am,  he  is  the  one  that  must  come  to 
no  harm.  Killing  can't  take  long  —  and  his  father 
sent  me  with  him." 

This  thought  passed  through  his  mind  as  the  tramp- 
ing feet  went  by.  As  a  sudden  splendid  burst  of  ap- 
proaching music  broke  upon  his  ear,  a  queer  look 
twisted  his  face.  He  realized  the  contrast  between 
this  day  and  that  first  morning  behind  the  churchyard, 
when  he  had  sat  on  his  platform  among  the  Squad  and 
looked  up  and  saw  Marco  in  the  arch  at  the  end  of  the 
passage.  And  because  he  had  been  good  looking  and 
had  held  himself  so  well,  he  had  thrown  a  stone  at  him. 
Yes  —  blind  gutter-bred  fool  that  he'd  been:  —  his 
first  greeting  to  Marco  had  been  a  stone,  just  because 
he  was  what  he  was.  As  they  stood  here  in  the  crowd 
306 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?" 

in  this  far-off  foreign  city,  it  did  not  seem  as  if  it  could 
be  true  that  it  was  he  who  had  done  it. 

He  managed  to  work  himself  closer  to  Marco's  side. 
"Isn't  it  splendid?"  he  said,  "I  wish  I  was  an  em- 
peror myself.  I  'd  have  these  fellows  out  like  this 
every  day."  He  said  it  only  because  he  wanted  to  say 
something,  to  speak,  as  a  reason  for  getting  closer  to 
him.  He  wanted  to  be  near  enough  to  touch  him  and 
feel  that  they  were  really  together  and  that  the  whole 
thing  was  not  a  sort  of  magnificent  dream  from  which 
he  might  awaken  to  find  himself  lying  on  his  heap  of 
rags  in  his  corner  of  the  room  in  Bone  Court. 

The  crowd  swayed  forward  in  its  eagerness  to  see 
the  principal  feature  of  the  pageant  —  the  Emperor  in 
his  carriage.  The  Rat  swayed  forward  with  the  rest 
to  look  as  it  passed. 

A  handsome  white-haired  and  mustached  personage 
in  splendid  uniform  decorated  with  jeweled  orders  and 
with  a  cascade  of  emerald-green  plumes  nodding  in  his 
military  hat  gravely  saluted  the  shouting  people  on 
either  side.  By  him  sat  a  man  uniformed,  deco- 
rated, and  emerald-plumed  also,  but  many  years 
younger. 

Marco's  arm  touched  The  Rat's  almost  at  the  same 
moment  that  his  own  touched  Marco.  Under  the  nod- 
ding plumes  each  saw  the  rather  tired  and  cynical  pale 
face,  a  sketch  of  which  was  hidden  in  the  slit  in  Mar- 
co's sleeve. 

"  Is  the  one  who  sits  with  the  Emperor  an  Arch- 
307 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

duke  ?  "  Marco  asked  the  man  nearest  to  him  in  the 
crowd.  The  man  answered  amiably  enough.  No,  he 
was  not,  but  he  was  a  certain  Prince,  a  descendant  of 
the  one  who  was  the  hero  of  the  day.  He  was  a  great 
favorite  of  the  Emperor's  and  was  also  a  great  per- 
sonage, whose  palace  contained  pictures  celebrated 
throughout  Europe. 

"  He  pretends  it  is  only  pictures  he  cares  for,"  he 
went  on,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  speaking  to  his 
wife,  who  had  begun  to  listen,  "  but  he  is  a  clever  one, 
who  amuses  himself  with  things  he  professes  not  to 
concern  himself  about  —  big  things.  It 's  his  way  to 
look  bored,  and  interested  in  nothing,  but  it 's  said  he  's 
a  wizard  for  knowing  dangerous  secrets." 

"  Does  he  live  at  the  Hofburg  with  the  Emperor?  " 
asked  the  woman,  craning  her  neck  to  look  after  the 
imperial  carriage. 

"  No,  but  he  's  often  there.  The  Emperor  is  lonely 
and  bored  too,  no  doubt,  and  this  one  has  ways  of 
making  him  forget  his  troubles.  It 's  been  told  me 
that  now  and  then  the  two  dress  themselves  roughly, 
like  common  men,  and  go  out  into  the  city  to  see  what 
it 's  like  to  rub  shoulders  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  I 
daresay  it 's  true.  I  should  like  to  try  it  myself,  once 
in  a  while,  if  I  had  to  sit  on  a  throne  and  wear  a 
crown." 

The  two  boys  followed  the  celebration  to  its  end. 
They  managed  to  get  near  enough  to  see  the  entrance 
to  the  church  where  the  service  was  held  and  to  get  a 
308 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?" 

view  of  the  ceremonies  at  the  banner-draped  and  laurel- 
wreathed  statue.  They  saw  the  man  with  the  pale 
face  several  times,  but  he  was  always  so  enclosed  that 
it  was  not  possible  to  get  within  yards  of  him.  It  hap- 
pened once,  however,  that  he  looked  through  a  tem- 
porary break  in  the  crowding  people  and  saw  a  dark 
strong- featured  and  remarkably  intent  boy's  face, 
whose  vivid  scrutiny  of  him  caught  his  eye.  There 
was  something  in  the  fixedness  of  its  attention  which 
caused  him  to  look  at  it  curiously  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  Marco  met  his  gaze  squarely. 

"  Look  at  me !  Look  at  me !  "  the  boy  was  saying 
to  him  mentally.  "  I  have  a  message  for  you.  A 
message ! " 

The  tired  eyes  in  the  pale  face  rested  on  him  with  a 
certain  growing  light  of  interest  and  curiosity,  but  the 
crowding  people  moved  and  the  temporary  break  closed 
up,  so  that  the  two  could  see  each  other  no  more. 
Marco  and  The  Rat  were  pushed  backward  by  those 
taller  and  stronger  than  themselves  until  they  were  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  Hofburg,"  said  Marco.  "  They 
will  come  back  there,  and  we  shall  see  him  again  even 
if  we  can't  get  near." 

To  the  Hofburg  they  made  their  way  through  the 
less  crowded  streets,  and  there  they  waited  as  near  to 
the  great  palace  as  they  could  get.  They  were  there 
when,  the  ceremonies  at  an  end,  the  imperial  carriages 
returned,  but,  though  they  saw  their  man  again,  they 
309 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

were  at  some  distance  from  him  and  he  did  not  see 
them. 

Then  followed  four  singular  days.  They  were 
singular  days  because  they  were  full  of  tantalizing 
incidents.  Nothing  seemed  easier  than  to  hear  talk 
of,  and  see  the  Emperor's  favorite,  but  nothing  was 
more  impossible  than  to  get  near  to  him.  He  seemed 
rather  a  favorite  with  the  populace,  and  the  common 
people  of  the  shopkeeping  or  laboring  classes  were 
given  to  talking  freely  of  him  —  of  where  he  was 
going  and  what  he  was  doing.  To-night  he  would 
be  sure  to  be  at  this  great  house  or  that,  at  this  ball 
or  that  banquet.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  discover- 
ing that  he  would  be  sure  to  go  to  the  opera,  or  the 
theatre,  or  to  drive  to  Schonbrunn  with  his  imperial 
master.  Marco  and  The  Rat  heard  casual  speech  of 
him  again  and  again,  and  from  one  part  of  the  city  to 
the  other  they  followed  and  waited  for  him.  But  it 
was  like  chasing  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  He  was  evi- 
dently too  brilliant  and  important  a  person  to  be 
allowed  to  move  about  alone.  There  were  always 
people  with  him  who  seemed  absorbed  in  his  languid 
cynical  talk.  Marco  thought  that  he  never  seemed 
to  care  much  for  his  companions,  though  they  on 
their  part  always  seemed  highly  entertained  by  what 
he  was  saying.  It  was  noticeable  that  they  laughed 
a  great  deal,  though  he  himself  scarcely  even 
smiled. 

"  He  's  one  of  those  chaps  with  the  trick  of  saying 
310 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?" 

witty  things  as  if  he  didn't  see  the  fun  in  them  him- 
self/' The  Rat  summed  him  up.  "  Chaps  like  that  are 
always  cleverer  than  the  other  kind." 

"  He  's  too  high  in  favor  and  too  rich  not  to  be 
followed  about,"  they  heard  a  man  in  a  shop  say  one 
day,  "  but  he  gets  tired  of  it.  Sometimes,  when  he 's 
too  bored  to  stand  it  any  longer,  he  gives  it  out  that 
he  's  gone  into  the  mountains  somewhere,  and  all  the 
time  he  's  shut  up  alone  with  his  pictures  in  his  own 
palace." 

That  very  night  The  Rat  came  in  to  their  attic  look- 
ing pale  and  disappointed.  He  had  been  out  to  buy 
some  food  after  a  long  and  arduous  day  in  which  they 
had  covered  much  ground,  had  seen  their  man  three 
times,  and  each  time  under  circumstances  which  made 
him  more  inaccessible  than  ever.  They  had  come 
back  to  their  poor  quarters  both  tired  and  ravenously 
hungry. 

The  Rat  threw  his  purchase  on  to  the  table  and 
himself  into  a  chair. 

"  He  's  gone  to  Budapest,"  he  said.  "  Now  how 
shall  we  find  him  ?  " 

Marco  was  rather  pale  also,  and  for  a  moment  he 
looked  paler.  The  day  had  been  a  hard  one,  and  in 
their  haste  to  reach  places  at  a  long  distance  from  each 
other  they  had  forgotten  their  need  of  food. 

They  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments  because  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say.  "  We  are  too  tired  and 
hungry  to  be  able  to  think  well,"  Marco  said  at  last. 
3ii 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"Let  us  eat  our  supper  and  then  go  to  sleep.  Until 
we  've  had  a  rest,  we  must '  let  go.'  " 

"  Yes.  There  's  no  good  in  talking  when  you  're 
tired,"  The  Rat  answered  a  trifle  gloomily.  "You 
don't  reason  straight.     We  must  '  let  go.'  " 

Their  meal  was  simple  but  they  ate  well  and  with- 
out words.  Even  when  they  had  finished  and  un- 
dressed for  the  night,  they  said  very  little. 

"  Where  do  our  thoughts  go  when  we  are  asleep," 
The  Rat  inquired  casually  after  he  was  stretched  out 
in  the  darkness.  "  They  must  go  somewhere.  Let 's 
send  them  to  find  out  what  to  do  next." 

"  It 's  not  as  still  as  it  was  on  the  Gaisberg.  You 
can  hear  the  city  roaring,"  said  Marco  drowsily  from 
his  dark  corner.  "  We  must  make  a  ledge  —  for  our- 
selves." 

Sleep  made  it  for  them  —  deep,  restful,  healthy 
sleep.  If  they  had  been  more  resentful  of  their  ill 
luck  and  lost  labor,  it  would  have  come  less  easily  and 
have  been  less  natural.  In  their  talks  of  strange 
things  they  had  learned  that  one  great  secret  of 
strength  and  unflagging  courage  is  to  know  how  to 
"  let  go  " —  to  cease  thinking  over  an  anxiety  until 
the  right  moment  comes.  It  was  their  habit  to  "  let 
go  "  for  hours  sometimes,  and  wander  about  looking  at 
places  and  things  —  galleries,  museums,  palaces,  giv- 
ing themselves  up  with  boyish  pleasure  and  eagerness 
to  all  they  saw.  Marco  was  too  intimate  with  the 
things  worth  seeing,  and  The  Rat  too  curious  and 
312 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  FIND  HIM?" 

feverishly  wide-awake  to  allow  of  their  missing  much. 
The  Rat's  image  of  the  world  had  grown  until  it 
seemed  to  know  no  boundaries  which  could  hold  its 
wealth  of  wonders.  He  wanted  to  go  on  and  on  and 
see  them  all. 

When  Marco  opened  his  eyes  in  the  morning,  he 
found  The  Rat  lying  looking  at  him.  Then  they  both 
sat  up  in  bed  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  believe  we  are  both  thinking  the  same  thing," 
Marco  said. 

They  frequently  discovered  that  they  were  thinking 
the  same  things. 

"  So  do  I,"  answered  The  Rat.  "  It  shows  how 
tired  we  were  that  we  did  n't  think  of  it  last  night." 

"  Yes,  we  are  thinking  the  same  thing,"  said  Marco. 
"  We  have  both  remembered  what  we  heard  about  his 
shutting  himself  up  alone  with  his  pictures  and  mak- 
ing people  believe  he  had  gone  away." 

"  He  's  in  his  palace  now,"  The  Rat  announced. 

"Do  you  feel  sure  of  that,  too?"  asked  Marco. 
"  Did  you  wake  up  and  feel  sure  of  it  the  first  thing?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  The  Rat.  "  As  sure  as  if  I  'd 
heard  him  say  it  himself." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Marco. 

"  That 's  what  our  thoughts  brought  back  to  us," 
said  The  Rat,  "  when  we  '  let  go '  and  sent  them  off 
last  night."  He  sat  up  hugging  his  knees  and  look- 
ing straight  before  him  for  some  time  after  this,  and 
Marco  did  not  interrupt  his  meditations. 
313 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  day  was  a  brilliant  one,  and,  though  their  attic 
had  only  one  window,  the  sun  shone  in  through  it  as 
they  ate  their  breakfast.  After  it,  they  leaned  on  the 
window's  ledge  and  talked  about  the  Prince's  garden. 
They  talked  about  it  because  it  was  a  place  open  to 
the  public  and  they  had  walked  round  it  more  than 
once.  The  palace,  which  was  not  a  large  one,  stood 
in  the  midst  of  it.  The  Prince  was  good-natured 
enough  to  allow  quiet  and  well-behaved  people  to 
saunter  through.  It  was  not  a  fashionable  promenade 
but  a  pleasant  retreat  for  people  who  sometimes  took 
their  work  or  books  and  sat  on  the  seats  placed  here 
and  there  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers. 

"  When  we  were  there  the  first  time,  I  noticed  two 
things,"  Marco  said.  "  There  is  a  stone  balcony 
which  juts  out  from  the  side  of  the  palace  which  looks 
on  the  Fountain  Garden.  That  day  there  were  chairs 
on  it  as  if  the  Prince  and  his  visitors  sometimes  sat 
there.  Near  it,  there  was  a  very  large  evergreen 
shrub  and  I  saw  that  there  was  a  hollow  place  inside 
it.  If  some  one  wanted  to  stay  in  the  gardens  all 
night  to  watch  the  windows  when  they  were  lighted 
and  see  if  any  one  came  out  alone  upon  the  balcony, 
he  could  hide  himself  in  the  hollow  place  and  stay 
there  until  the  morning." 

"Is  there  room  for  two  inside  the  shrub?"  The 
Rat  asked. 

"  No.     I  must  go  alone,"  said  Marco. 


3i4 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  VOICE   IN   THE   NIGHT 

LATE  that  afternoon  there  wandered  about  the 
gardens  two  quiet,  inconspicuous,  rather  poorly 
dressed  boys.  They  looked  at  the  palace,  the  shrubs, 
and  the  flower-beds,  as  strangers  usually  did,  and  they 
sat  on  the  seats  and  talked  as  people  were  accustomed 
to  seeing  boys  talk  together.  It  was  a  sunny  day  and 
exceptionally  warm,  and  there  were  more  saunterers 
and  sitters  than  usual,  which  was  perhaps  the  reason 
why  the  portier  at  the  entrance  gates  gave  such  slight 
notice  to  the  pair  that  he  did  not  observe  that,  though 
two  boys  came  in,  only  one  went  out.  He  did  not, 
in  fact,  remember,  when  he  saw  The  Rat  swing  by  on 
his  crutches  at  closing-time,  that  he  had  entered  in 
company  with  a  dark-haired  lad  who  walked  without 
any  aid.  It  happened  that,  when  The  Rat  passed  out, 
the  portier  at  the  entrance  was  much  interested  in  the 
aspect  of  the  sky,  which  was  curiously  threatening. 
There  had  been  heavy  clouds  hanging  about  all  day 
and  now  and  then  blotting  out  the  sunshine  entirely, 
but  the  sun  had  refused  to  retire  altogether.  Just  now, 
however,  the  clouds  had  piled  themselves  in  thunder- 
315 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ous,  purplish  mountains,  and  the  sun  had  been  forced 
to  set  behind  them. 

"  It 's  been  a  sort  of  battle  since  morning,"  the  por- 
tier  said.  "  There  will  be  some  crashes  and  cataracts 
to-night."  That  was  what  The  Rat  had  thought  when 
they  had  sat  in  the  Fountain  Garden  on  a  seat  which 
gave  them  a  good  view  of  the  balcony  and  the  big  ever- 
green shrub,  which  they  knew  had  the  hollow  in  the 
middle,  though  its  circumference  was  so  imposing. 
"If  there  should  be  a  big  storm,  the  evergreen  will  not 
save  you  much,  though  it  may  keep  off  the  worst," 
The  Rat  said.  "  I  wish  there  was  room  for 
two." 

He  would  have  wished  there  was  room  for  two  if 
he  had  seen  Marco  marching  to  the  stake.  As  the 
gardens  emptied,  the  boys  rose  and  walked  round  once 
more,  as  if  on  their  way  out.  By  the  time  they  had 
sauntered  toward  the  big  evergreen,  nobody  was  in 
the  Fountain  Garden,  and  the  last  loiterers  were 
moving  toward  the  arched  stone  entrance  to  the 
streets. 

When  they  drew  near  one  side  of  the  evergreen,  the 
two  were  together.  When  The  Rat  swung  out  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  he  was  alone!  No  one  noticed  that 
anything  had  happened ;  no  one  looked  back.  So  The 
Rat  swung  down  the  walks  and  round  the  flower-beds 
and  passed  into  the  street.  And  the  portier  looked  at 
the  sky  and  made  his  remark  about  the  "  crashes  "  and 
"cataracts." 

316 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

As  the  darkness  came  on,  the  hollow  in  the  shrub 
seemed  a  very  safe  place.  It  was  not  in  the  least 
likely  that  any  one  would  enter  the  closed  gardens; 
and  if  by  rare  chance  some  servant  passed  through, 
he  would  not  be  in  search  of  people  who  wished  to 
watch  all  night  in  the  middle  of  an  evergreen  instead 
of  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  The  hollow  was  well 
inclosed  with  greenery,  and  there  was  room  to  sit  down 
when  one  was  tired  of  standing. 

Marco  stood  for  a  long  time  because,  by  doing  so, 
he  could  see  plainly  the  windows  opening  on  the  bal- 
cony if  he  gently  pushed  aside  some  flexible  young 
boughs.  He  had  managed  to  discover  in  his  first  visit 
to  the  gardens  that  the  windows  overlooking  the  Foun- 
tain Garden  were  those  which  belonged  to  the  Prince's 
own  suite  of  rooms.  Those  which  opened  on  to  the 
balcony  lighted  his  favorite  apartment,  which  con- 
tained his  best-loved  books  and  pictures  and  in  which 
he  spent  most  of  his  secluded  leisure  hours. 

Marco  watched  these  windows  anxiously.  If  the 
Prince  had  not  gone  to  Budapest,— if  he  were  really 
only  in  retreat,  and  hiding  from  his  gay  world  among 
his  treasures, —  he  would  be  living  in  his  favorite 
rooms  and  lights  would  show  themselves.  And  if 
there  were  lights,  he  might  pass  before  a  window  be- 
cause, since  he  was  inclosed  in  his  garden,  he  need  not 
fear  being  seen.  The  twilight  deepened  into  darkness 
and,  because  of  the  heavy  clouds,  it  was  very  dense. 
Faint  gleams  showed  themselves  in  the  lower  part  of 
317 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  palace,  but  none  was  lighted  in  the  windows  Marco 
watched.  He  waited  so  long  that  it  became  evident 
that  none  was  to  be  lighted  at  all.  At  last  he  loosed 
his  hold  on  the  young  boughs  and,  after  standing  a 
few  moments  in  thought,  sat  down  upon  the  earth  in 
the  midst  of  his  embowered  tent.  The  Prince  was 
not  in  his  retreat ;  he  was  probably  not  in  Vienna,  and 
the  rumor  of  his  journey  to  Budapest  had  no  doubt 
been  true.  So  much  time  lost  through  making  a  mis- 
take r*~  but  it  was  best  to  have  made  the  venture.  Not 
to  have  made  it  would  have  been  to  lose  a  chance.  The 
entrance  was  closed  for  the  night  and  there  was  no 
getting  out  of  the  gardens  until  they  were  opened  for 
the  next  day.  He  must  stay  in  his  hiding-place  until 
the  time  when  people  began  to  come  and  bring  their 
books  and  knitting  and  sit  on  the  seats.  Then  he 
could  stroll  out  without  attracting  attention.  But  he 
had  the  night  before  him  to  spend  as  best  he  could. 
That  would  not  matter  at  all.  He  could  tuck  his  cap 
under  his  head  and  go  to  sleep  on  the  ground.  He 
could  command  himself  to  waken  once  every  half- 
hour  and  look  for  the  lights.  He  would  not  go  to 
sleep  until  it  was  long  past  midnight  —  so  long  past 
that  there  would  not  be  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that 
anything  could  happen.  But  the  clouds  which  made 
the  night  so  dark  were  giving  forth  low  rumbling 
growls.  At  intervals  a  threatening  gleam  of  light 
shot  across  them  and  a  sudden  swish  of  wind  rushed 
through  the  trees  in  the  gardens.  This  happened  sev- 
3i8 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

eral  times,  and  then  Marco  began  to  hear  the  patter  of 
raindrops.  They  were  heavy  and  big  drops,  but  few 
at  first,  and  then  there  was  a  new  and  more  powerful 
rush  of  wind,  a  jagged  dart  of  light  in  the  sky,  and  a 
tremendous  crash.  After  that  the  clouds  tore  them- 
selves open  and  poured  forth  their  contents  in  floods. 
After  the  protracted  struggle  of  the  day  it  all  seemed 
to  happen  at  once,  as  if  a  horde  of  huge  lions  had  at 
one  moment  been  let  loose :  flame  after  flame  of 
lightning,  roar  and  crash  and  sharp  reports  of  thun- 
der, shrieks  of  hurricane  wind,  torrents  of  rain,  as  if 
some  tidal-wave  of  the  skies  had  gathered  and  rushed 
and  burst  upon  the  earth.  It  was  such  a  storm  as 
people  remember  for  a  lifetime  and  which  in  few  life- 
times is  seen  at  all. 

Marco  stood  still  in  the  midst  of  the  rage  and  flood- 
ing, blinding  roar  of  it.  After  the  first  few  minutes 
he  knew  he  could  do  nothing  to  shield  himself.  Down 
the  garden  paths  he  heard  cataracts  rushing.  He  held 
his  cap  pressed  against  his  eyes  because  he  seemed  to 
stand  in  the  midst  of  darting  flames.  The  crashes, 
cannon  reports  and  thunderings,  and  the  jagged 
streams  of  light  came  so  close  to  one  another  that  he 
seemed  deafened  as  well  as  blinded.  He  wondered  if 
he  should  ever  be  able  to  hear  human  voices  again  when 
it  was  over.  That  he  was  drenched  to  the  skin  and 
that  the  water  poured  from  his  clothes  as  if  he  were 
himself  a  cataract  was  so  small  a  detail  that  he  was 
scarcely  aware  of  it.  He  stood  still,  bracing  his  body, 
319 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

and  waited.  If  he  had  been  a  Samavian  soldier  in 
the  trenches  and  such  a  storm  had  broken  upon  him 
and  his  comrades,  they  could  only  have  braced  them- 
selves and  waited.  This  was  what  he  found  himself 
thinking  when  the  tumult  and  downpour  were  at  their 
worst.  There  were  men  who  had  waited  in  the  midst 
of  a  rain  of  bullets. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  thought  had  come  to  him 
that  there  occurred  the  first  temporary  lull  in  the 
storm.  Its  fury  perhaps  reached  its  height  and  broke 
at  that  moment.  A  yellow  flame  had  torn  its  jagged 
way  across  the  heavens,  and  an  earth-rending  crash 
had  thundered  itself  into  rumblings  which  actually 
died  away  before  breaking  forth  again.  Marco  took 
his  cap  from  his  eyes  and  drew  a  long  breath.  He 
drew  two  long  breaths.  It  was  as  he  began  drawing 
a  third  and  realizing  the  strange  feeling  of  the  almost 
stillness  about  him  that  he  heard  a  new  kind  of  sound 
at  the  side  of  the  garden  nearest  his  hiding-place.  It 
sounded  like  the  creak  of  a  door  opening  somewhere 
in  the  wall  behind  the  laurel  hedge.  Some  one  was 
coming  into  the  garden  by  a  private  entrance.  He 
pushed  aside  the  young  boughs  again  and  tried  to  see, 
but  the  darkness  was  too  dense.  Yet  he  could  hear, 
if  the  thunder  would  not  break  again.  There  was 
the  sound  of  feet  on  the  wet  gravel,  the  footsteps  of 
more  than  one  person  coming  toward  where  he  stood, 
but  not  as  if  afraid  of  being  heard;  merely  as  if  they 
were  at  liberty  to  come  in  by  what  entrance  they  chose. 
320 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Marco  remained  very  still.  A  sudden  hope  gave  him 
a  shock  of  joy.  If  the  man  with  the  tired  face  chose 
to  hide  himself  from  his  acquaintances,  he  might 
choose  to  go  in  and  out  by  a  private  entrance.  The 
footsteps  drew  near,  crushing  the  wet  gravel,  passed 
by,  and  seemed  to  pause  somewhere  near  the  balcony; 
and  then  flame  lit  up  the  sky  again  and  the  thunder 
burst  forth  once  more. 

But  this  was  its  last  great  peal.  The  storm  was 
at  an  end.  Only  fainter  and  fainter  rumblings  and 
mutterings  and  paler  and  paler  darts  followed.  Even 
they  were  soon  over,  and  the  cataracts  in  the  paths  had 
rushed  themselves  silent.  But  the  darkness  was  still 
deep. 

It  was  deep  to  blackness  in  the  hollow  of  the  ever- 
green. Marco  stood  in  it,  streaming  with  rain,  but 
feeling  nothing  because  he  was  full  of  thought.  He 
pushed  aside  his  greenery  and  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
place  in  the  blackness  where  the  windows  must  be, 
though  he  could  not  see  them.  It  seemed  that  he 
waited  a  long  time,  but  he  knew  it  only  seemed  so 
really.  He  began  to  breathe  quickly  because  he  was 
waiting  for  something. 

Suddenly  he  saw  exactly  where  the  windows  were 
—  because  they  were  all  lighted ! 

His  feeling  of  relief  was  great,  but  it  did  not  last 

very   long.     It   was   true   that    something   had   been 

gained  in  the  certainty  that  his  man  had  not  left 

Vienna.     But  what  next?     It  would  not  be  so  easy  to 

321 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

follow  him  if  he  chose  only  to  go  out  secretly  at  night. 
What  next  ?  To  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  watching 
a  lighted  window  was  not  enough.  To-morrow  night 
it  might  not  be  lighted.  But  he  kept  his  gaze  fixed 
upon  it.  He  tried  to  fix  all  his  will  and  thought- 
power  on  the  person  inside  the  room.  Perhaps  he 
could  reach  him  and  make  him  listen,  even  though  he 
would  not  know  that  any  one  was  speaking  to  him. 
He  knew  that  thoughts  were  strong  things.  If  angry 
thoughts  in  one  man's  mind  will  create  anger  in  the 
mind  of  another,  why  should  not  sane  messages  cross 
the  line  ? 

"  I  must  speak  to  you.  I  must  speak  to  you ! "  he 
found  himself  saying  in  a  low  intense  voice.  "  I  am 
outside  here  waiting.  Listen!  I  must  speak  to 
you ! " 

He  said  it  many  times  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  window  which  opened  on  to  the  balcony.  Once 
he  saw  a  man's  figure  cross  the  room,  but  he  could 
not  be  sure  who  it  was.  The  last  distant  rumblings 
of  thunder  had  died  away  and  the  clouds  were  break- 
ing. It  was  not  long  before  the  dark  mountainous 
billows  broke  apart,  and  a  brilliant  full  moon  showed 
herself  sailing  in  the  rift,  suddenly  flooding  every- 
thing with  light.  Parts  of  the  garden  were  silver 
white,  and  the  tree  shadows  were  like  black  velvet.  A 
silvery  lance  pierced  even  into  the  hollow  of  Marco's 
evergreen  and  struck  across  his  face. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  sudden  change  which  attracted 
322 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

the  attention  of  those  inside  the  balconied  room.  A 
man's  figure  appeared  at  the  long  windows.  Marco 
saw  now  that  it  was  the  Prince.  He  opened  the  win- 
dows and  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  said  quietly.  And  he  stood  with 
his  face  lifted,  looking  at  the  great  white  sailing 
moon. 

He  stood  very  still  and  seemed  for  the  moment  to 
forget  the  world  and  himself.  It  was  a  wonderful, 
triumphant  queen  of  a  moon.  But  something  brought 
him  back  to  earth.  A  low,  but  strong  and  clear,  boy- 
voice  came  up  to  him  from  the  garden  path  below. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted.  The  Lamp  is  lighted,"  it 
said,  and  the  words  sounded  almost  as  if  some  one 
were  uttering  a  prayer.  They  seemed  to  call  to  him, 
to  arrest  him,  to  draw  him. 

He  stood  still  a  few  seconds  in  dead  silence.  Then 
he  bent  over  the  balustrade.  The  moonlight  had  not. 
broken  the  darkness  below. 

"  That  is  a  boy's  voice,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  but 
I  cannot  see  who  is  speaking." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  boy's  voice,"  it  answered,  in  a  way 
which  somehow  moved  him,  because  it  was  so  ardent. 
"It  is  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan.  The  Lamp  is 
lighted." 

"  Wait.  I  am  coming  down  to  you,"  the  Prince 
said. 

In  a  few  minutes  Marco  heard  a  door  open  gently 
not  far  from  where  he  stood.  Then  the  man  he  had 
323 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

been  following  so  many  days  appeared  at  his  side. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  Before  the  gates  closed.  I  hid  myself  in  the  hol- 
low of  the  big  shrub  there,  Highness,"  Marco  an- 
swered. 

"Then  you  were  out  in  the  storm?" 

"  Yes,  Highness." 

The  Prince  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "  I 
cannot  see  you  —  but  it  is  best  to  stand  in  the  shadow. 
You  are  drenched  to  the  skin." 

"  I  have  been  able  to  give  your  Highness  —  the 
Sign,"  Marco  whispered.     "  A  storm  is  nothing." 

There  was  a  silence.  Marco  knew  that  his  com- 
panion was  pausing  to  turn  something  over  in  his 
mind. 

"  So-o  ?  "  he  said  slowly,  at  length.  "  The  Lamp 
is  lighted.  And  you  are  sent  to  bear  the  Sign." 
Something  in  his  voice  made  Marco  feel  that  he  was 
smiling. 

"  What  a  race  you  are !  What  a  race  —  you  Sa- 
mavian  Loristans !  " 

He  paused  as  if  to  think  the  thing  over  again. 

"  I  want  to  see  your  face,"  he  said  next.  "  Here 
is  a  tree  with  a  shaft  of  moonlight  striking  through 
the  branches.     Let  us  step  aside  and  stand  under  it." 

Marco  did  as  he  was  told.     The  shaft  of  moonlight 

fell   upon   his   uplifted    face  and   showed   its   young 

strength  and  darkness,  quite  splendid  for  the  moment 

in  a  triumphant  glow  of  joy  in  obstacles  overcome. 

324 


WWM  -          ■•  "^77",  M^T I *? ?:C^ 

f  ^Hb            f  ?^H^:';:'"'^ 

[f                '■^&SF^^SB',M 

F    '^pw^.'' :  | 

^~  ,  .  ^Jv-;^  j""'    ;jKf 

* 

^    ■  dri^*  '<*A», 

1   ■                    *J^-- ' 

t                              •  MB 

■ 

-   : 

t 
• 

.                |#       «                                                                  !                   *  *         £ 

It  is  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan.     The  Lamp  is  Lighted' 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Raindrops  hung  on  his  hair,  but  he  did  not  look 
draggled,  only  very  wet  and  picturesque.  He  had 
reached  his  man.     He  had  given  the  Sign. 

The  Prince  looked  him  over  with  interested  curi- 
osity. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  his  cool,  rather  dragging  voice. 
"  You  are  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan.  Also  you 
must  be  taken  care  of.  You  must  come  with  me.  I 
have  trained  my  household  to  remain  in  its  own  quar- 
ters until  I  require  its  services.  I  have  attached  to 
my  own  apartments  a  good  safe  little  room  where  I 
sometimes  keep  people.  You  can  dry  your  clothes 
and  sleep  there.  When  the  gardens  are  opened  again, 
the  rest  will  be  easy." 

But  though  he  stepped  out  from  under  the  trees  and 
began  to  move  towards  the  palace  in  the  shadow, 
Marco  noticed  that  he  moved  hesitatingly,  as  if  he 
had  not  quite  decided  what  he  should  do.  He  stopped 
rather  suddenly  and  turned  again  to  Marco,  who  was 
following  him. 

"  There  is  some  one  in  the  room  I  just  now  left," 
he  said,  "  an  old  man  —  whom  it  might  interest  to  see 
you.  It  might  also  be  a  good  thing  for  him  to  feel 
interest  in  you.  I  choose  that  he  shall  see  you  —  as 
you  are." 

"  I  am  at  your  command,  Highness,"  Marco  an- 
swered.    He  knew  his  companion  was  smiling  again. 

"  You  have  been  in  training  for  more  centuries  than 
you  know,"  he  said ;  "  and  your  father  has  prepared 
325 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

you  to  encounter  the  unexpected  without  surprise." 

They  passed  under  the  balcony  and  paused  at  a  low 
stone  doorway  hidden  behind  shrubs.  The  door  was 
a  beautiful  one,  Marco  saw  when  it  was  opened,  and 
the  corridor  disclosed  was  beautiful  also,  though  it 
had  an  air  of  quiet  and  aloofness  which  was  not  so 
much  secret  as  private.  A  perfect  though  narrow 
staircase  mounted  from  it  to  the  next  floor.  rAittr 
ascending  it,  the  Prince  led  the  way  through  a  short 
corridor  and  stopped  at  the  door  at  the  end  of  it. 
"  We  are  going  in  here,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  wonderful  room  —  the  one  which  opened 
on  to  the  balcony.  Each  piece  of  furniture  in  it,  the 
hangings,  the  tapestries,  and  pictures  on  the  wall  were 
all  such  as  might  well  have  found  themselves  adorning 
a  museum.  Marco  remembered  the  common  report 
of  his  escort's  favorite  amusement  of  collecting  won- 
ders and  furnishing  his  house  with  the  things  others 
exhibited  only  as  marvels  of  art  and  handicraft.  The 
place  was  rich  and  mellow  with  exquisitely  chosen 
beauties. 

In  a  massive  chair  upon  the  hearth  sat  a  figure  with 
bent  head.  It  was  a  tall  old  man  with  white  hair  and 
moustache.  His  elbows  rested  upon  the  arm  of  his 
chair  and  he  leaned  his  forehead  on  his  hand  as  if  he 
were  weary. 

Marco's  companion  crossed  the  room  and  stood  be- 
side him,  speaking  in  a  lowered  voice.  Marco  could 
not  at  first  hear  what  he  said.  He  himself  stood  quite 
326 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

still,  waiting.  The  white-haired  man  lifted  his  head 
and  listened.  It  seemed  as  though  almost  at  once  he 
was  singularly  interested.  The  lowered  voice  was 
slightly  raised  at  last  and  Marco  heard  the  last  two 
sentences : 

"  The  only  son  of  Stefan  Loristan.     Look  at  him." 

The  old  man  in  the  chair  turned  slowly  and  looked, 
steadily,  and  with  questioning  curiosity  touched  with 
grave  surprise.     He  had  keen  and  clear  blue  eyes. 

Then  Marco,  still  erect  and  silent,  waited  again. 
The  Prince  had  merely  said  to  him  "  an  old  man 
whom  it  might  interest  to  see  you."  He  had  plainly 
intended  that,  whatsoever  happened,  he  must  make  no 
outward  sign  of  seeing  more  than  he  had  been  told  he 
would  see  — "  an  old  man."  It  was  for  him  to  show 
no  astonishment  or  recognition.  He  had  been  brought 
here  not  to  see  but  to  be  seen.  The  power  of  remain- 
ing still  under  scrutiny,  which  The  Rat  had  often 
envied  him,  stood  him  now  in  good  stead  because 
he  had  seen  the  white  head  and  tall  form  not  many 
days  before,  surmounted  by  brilliant  emerald  plumes, 
hung  with  jeweled  decorations,  in  the  royal  carriage, 
escorted  by  banners,  and  helmets,  and  following  troops 
whose  tramping  feet  kept  time  to  bursts  of  military 
music  while  the  populace  bared  their  heads  and 
cheered. 

"  He  is  like  his  father,"  this  personage  said  to  the 
Prince.  "  But  if  any  one  but  Loristan  had  sent 
him —  His  looks  please  me."  Then  suddenly  to 
327 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Marco,  "  You  were  waiting  outside  while  the  storm 
was  going  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Marco  answered. 

Then  the  two  exchanged  some  words  still  in  the 
lowered  voice. 

"You  read  the  news  as  you  made  your  journey?" 
he  was  asked.     "  You  know  how  Samavia  stands  ?  " 

"  She  does  not  stand,"  said  Marco.  "  The  Iaro- 
vitch  and  the  Maranovitch  have  fought  as  hyenas  fight, 
until  each  has  torn  the  other  into  fragments  —  and 
neither  has  blood  or  strength  left." 

The  two  glanced  at  each  other. 

"  A  good  simile,"  said  the  older  man.  "  You  are 
right.  If  a  strong  party  rose  —  and  a  greater  power 
chose  not  to  interfere  —  the  country  might  see  better 
days."  He  looked  at  him  a  few  moments  longer  and 
then  waved  his  hand  kindly. 

"  You  are  a  fine  Samavian,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad 
of  that.     You  may  go.     Good  night." 

Marco  bowed  respectfully  and  the  man  with  the 
tired  face  led  him  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  just  before  he  left  him  in  the  small  quiet 
chamber  in  which  he  was  to  sleep  that  the  Prince 
gave  him  a  final  curious  glance.  "  I  remember  now," 
he  said.  "  In  the  room,  when  you  answered  the  ques- 
tion about  Samavia,  I  was  sure  that  I  had  seen  you 
before.  It  was  the  day  of  the  celebration.  There 
was  a  break  in  the  crowd  and  I  saw  a  boy  looking  at 
me.     It  was  you." 

328 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"  Yes,"  said  Marco,  "  I  have  followed  you  each 
time  you  have  gone  out  since  then,  but  I  could  never 
get  near  enough  to  speak.  To-night  seemed  only  one 
chance  in  a  thousand." 

"  You  are  doing  your  work  more  like  a  man  than 
a  boy,"  was  the  next  speech,  and  it  was  made  reflec- 
tively. "  No  man  could  have  behaved  more  perfectly 
than  you  did  just  now,  when  discretion  and  composure 
were  necessary."  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  He 
was  deeply  interested  and  deeply  pleased.  Good 
night." 

When  the  gardens  had  been  thrown  open  the  next 
morning  and  people  were  passing  in  and  out  again, 
Marco  passed  out  also.  He  was  obliged  to  tell  him- 
self two  or  three  times  that  he  had  not  wakened  from 
an  amazing  dream.  He  quickened  his  pace  after  he 
had  crossed  the  street,  because  he  wanted  to  get  home 
to  the  attic  and  talk  to  The  Rat.  There  was  a  nar- 
row side-street  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  pass 
through  if  he  wished  to  make  a  short  cut..  As  he 
turned  into  it,  he  saw  a  curious  figure  leaning  on 
crutches  against  a  wall.  It  looked  damp  and  forlorn, 
and  he  wondered  if  it  could  be  a  beggar.  It  was  not. 
It  was  The  Rat,  who  suddenly  saw  who  was  approach- 
ing and  swung  forward.  His  face  was  pale  and 
haggard  and  he  looked  worn  and  frightened.  He 
dragged  off  his  cap  and  spoke  in  a  voice  which  was 
hoarse  as  a  crow's. 

329 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  God  be  thanked!  "  he  said.  "  God  be  thanked!  " 
as  people  always  said  it  when  they  received  the  Sign, 
alone.  But  there  was  a  kind  of  anguish  in  his  voice 
as  well  as  relief. 

"  Aide-de-camp !  "  Marco  cried  out  —  The  Rat  had 
begged  him  to  call  him  so.  "  What  have  you  been 
doing?     How  long  have  you  been  here?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  left  you  last  night,"  said  The  Rat, 
clutching  tremblingly  at  his  arm  as  if  to  make  sure 
he  was  real.  "If  there  was  not  room  for  two  in  the 
hollow,  there  was  room  for  one  in  the  street.  Was 
it  my  place  to  go  off  duty  and  leave  you  alone  —  was 
it?"   fiercely. 

"  You  were  out  in  the  storm  ?  " 

"  Were  n't  you  ?  "  still  fiercely.  "  I  huddled  against 
the  wall  as  well  as  I  could.  What  did  I  care? 
Crutches  don't  prevent  a  fellow  waiting.  I  would  n't 
have  left  you  if  you'd  given  me  orders.  And 
that  would  have  been  mutiny.  When  you  did  not 
come  out  as  soon  as  the  gates  opened,  I  felt  as  if  my 
head  got  on  fire.  How  could  I  know  what  had  hap- 
pened ?  I  've  not  the  nerve  and  backbone  you  have. 
I  go  half  mad."  For  a  second  or  so  Marco  did  not 
answer.  But  when  he  put  his  hand  on  the  damp 
sleeve,  The  Rat  actually  started,  because  it  seemed  as 
though  he  were  looking  into  the  eyes  of  Stefan  Loris- 
tan. 

"  You  look  just  like  your  father!  "  he  exclaimed,  in 
spite  of  himself.     "How  tall  you  are!" 
330 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"  When  you  are  near  me,"  Marco  said,  in  Loristan's 
own  voice,  "  when  you  are  near  me,  I  feel  —  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  a  royal  prince  attended  by  an  army.  You 
are  my  army."  And  he  pulled  off  his  cap  with  quick 
boyishness  and  added,  "  God  be  thanked !  " 

The  sun  was  warm  in  the  attic  window  when  they 
reached  their  lodging,  and  the  two  leaned  on  the  rough 
sill  as  Marco  told  his  story.  It  took  some  time  to  re- 
late ;  and  when  he  ended,  he  took  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket  and  showed  it  to  The  Rat.  It  contained  a  flat 
package  of  money. 

"  He  gave  it  to  me  just  before  he  opened  the  private 
door,"  Marco  explained.  "  And  he  said  to  me,  '  It 
will  not  be  long  now.  After  Samavia,  go  back  to 
London  as  quickly  as  you  can  —  as  quickly  as  you 
can! ' " 

"I  wonder  —  what  he  meant?"  The  Rat  said, 
slowly.  A  tremendous  thought  had  shot  through  his 
mind.  But  it  was  not  a  thought  he  could  speak  of 
to  Marco. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  thought  that  it  was  for  some  rea- 
son he  did  not  expect  me  to  know,"  Marco  said.  "  We 
will  do  as  he  told  us.  As  quickly  as  we  can."  They 
looked  over  the  newspapers,  as  they  did  every  day. 
All  that  could  be  gathered  from  any  of  them  was  that 
the  opposing  armies  of  Samavia  seemed  each  to  have 
reached  the  culmination  of  disaster  and  exhaustion. 
Which  party  had  the  power  left  to  take  any  final  step 
which  could  call  itself  a  victory,  it  was  impossible  to 
33i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

say.  Never  had  a  country  been  in  a  more  desperate 
case. 

"It  is  the  time!"  said  The  Rat,  glowering  over 
his  map.  "If  the  Secret  Party  rises  suddenly  now, 
it  can  take  Melzarr  almost  without  a  blow.  It 
can  sweep  through  the  country  and  disarm  both 
armies.  They  're  weakened  —  they  're  half  starved  — 
they're  bleeding  to  death;  they  want  to  be  disarmed. 
Only  the  Iarovitch  and  the  Maranovitch  keep  on  with 
the  struggle  because  each  is  fighting  for  the  power  to 
tax  the  people  and  make  slaves  of  them.  If  the  Secret 
Party  does  not  rise,  the  people  will,  and  they  '11 
rush  on  the  palaces  and  kill  every  Maranovitch  and 
Iarovitch  they  find.     And  serve  them  right !  " 

"  Let  us  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in  studying  the 
road-map  again,"  said  Marco.  "  To-night  we  must  be 
on  the  way  to  Samavia !  " 


332 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

THAT  one  day,  a  week  later,  two  tired  and  travel- 
worn  boy-mendicants  should  drag  themselves 
with  slow  and  weary  feet  across  the  frontier  line  be- 
tween Jiardasia  and  Samavia,  was  not  an  incident  to 
awaken  suspicion  or  even  to  attract  attention.  War 
and  hunger  and  anguish  had  left  the  country  stunned 
and  broken.  Since  the  worst  had  happened,  no  one 
was  curious  as  to  what  would  befall  them  next.  If 
Jiardasia  herself  had  become  a  foe,  instead  of  a 
friendly  neighbor,  and  had  sent  across  the  border  gal- 
loping hordes  of  soldiery,  there  would  only  have  been 
more  shrieks,  and  home-burnings,  and  slaughter  which 
no  one  dare  resist.  But,  so  far,  Jiardasia  had  re- 
mained peaceful.  The  two  boys  —  one  of  them  on 
crutches" — had  evidently  traveled  far  on  foot.  Their 
poor  clothes  were  dusty  and  travel-stained,  and  they 
stopped  and  asked  for  water  at  the  first  hut  across 
the  line.  The  one  who  walked  without  crutches  had 
some  coarse  bread  in  a  bag  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  they  sat  on  the  roadside  and  ate  it  as  if  they  were 
hungry.  The  old  grandmother  who  lived  alone  in 
333 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  hut  sat  and  stared  at  them  without  any  curiosity. 
She  may  have  vaguely  wondered  why  any  one  crossed 
into  Samavia  in  these  days.  But  she  did  not  care  to 
know  their  reason.  Her  big  son  had  lived  in  a  village 
which  belonged  to  the  Maranovitch  and  he  had  been 
called  out  to  fight  for  his  lords.  He  had  not  wanted 
to  fight  and  had  not  known  what  the  quarrel  was 
about,  but  he  was  forced  to  obey.  He  had  kissed  his 
handsome  wife  and  four  sturdy  children,  blubbering 
aloud  when  he  left  them.  His  village  and  his  good 
crops  and  his  house  must  be  left  behind.  Then  the 
Iarovitch  swept  through  the  pretty  little  cluster  of 
homesteads  which  belonged  to  their  enemy.  They 
were  mad  with  rage  because  they  had  met  with  great 
losses  in  a  battle  not  far  away,  and,  as  they  swooped 
through,  they  burned  and  killed,  and  trampled  down 
fields  and  vineyards.  The  old  woman's  son  never  saw 
either  the  burned  walls  of  his  house  or  the  bodies  of 
his  wife  and  children,  because  he  had  been  killed  him- 
self in  the  battle  for  which  the  Iarovitch  were  re- 
venging themselves.  Only  the  old  grandmother  who 
lived  in  the  hut  near  the  frontier  line  and  stared  va- 
cantly at  the  passers-by  remained  alive.  She  wearily 
gazed  at  people  and  wondered  why  she  did  not  hear 
news  from  her  son  and  her  grandchildren.  But  that 
was  all. 

When  the  boys  were  over  the  frontier  and  well  on 
their  way  along  the  roads,  it  was  not  difficult  to  keep 
out  of  sight  if  it  seemed  necessary.     The  country  was 
334 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

mountainous  and  there  were  deep  and  thick  forests 
by  the  way  —  forests  so  far-reaching  and  with  such 
thick  undergrowth  that  full-grown  men  could  easily 
have  hidden  themselves.  It  was  because  of  this,  per- 
haps, that  this  part  of  the  country  had  seen  little  fight- 
ing. There  was  too  great  opportunity  for  secure  am- 
bush for  a  foe.  As  the  two  travelers  went  on,  they 
heard  of  burned  villages  and  towns  destroyed,  but 
they  were  towns  and  villages  nearer  Melzarr  and  other 
fortress-defended  cities,  or  they  were  in  the  country 
surrounding  the  castles  and  estates  of  powerful  nobles 
and  leaders.  It  was  true,  as  Marco  had  said  to  the 
white-haired  personage,  that  the  Maranovitch  and  Iaro- 
vitch  had  fought  with  the  savageness  of  hyenas  until  at 
last  the  forces  of  each  side  lay  torn  and  bleeding, 
their  strength,  their  resources,  their  supplies  ex- 
hausted. 

Each  day  left  them  weaker  and  more  desperate. 
Europe  looked  on  with  small  interest  in  either  party 
but  with  growing  desire  that  the  disorder  should  end 
and  cease  to  interfere  with  commerce.  All  this  and 
much  more  Marco  and  The  Rat  knew,  but,  as  they 
made  their  cautious  way  through  byways  of  the 
maimed  and  tortured  little  country,  they  learned  other 
things.  They  learned  that  the  stories  told  of  its 
beauty  and  fertility  were  not  romances.  Its  heaven- 
reaching  mountains,  its  immense  plains  of  rich  ver- 
dure on  which  flocks  and  herds  might  have  fed  by 
thousands,  its  splendor  of  deep  forest  and  broad  clear 
335 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

rushing  rivers  had  a  primeval  majesty  such  as  the  first 
human  creatures  might  have  found  on  earth  in  the 
days  of  the  Garden  of  Eden.  The  two  boys  traveled 
through  forest  and  woodland  when  it  was  possible  to 
leave  the  road.  It  was  safe  to  thread  a  way  among 
huge  trees  and  tall  ferns  and  young  saplings.  It  was 
not  always  easy  but  it  was  safe.  Sometimes  they  saw 
a  charcoal-burner's  hut  or  a  shelter  where  a  shepherd 
was  hiding  with  the  few  sheep  left  to  him.  Each  man 
they  met  wore  the  same  look  of  stony  suffering  in  his 
face ;  but,  when  the  boys  begged  for  bread  and  water, 
as  was  their  habit,  no  one  refused  to  share  the  little 
he  had.  It  soon  became  plain  to  them  that  they  were 
thought  to  be  two  young  fugitives  whose  homes  had 
probably  been  destroyed  and  who  were  wandering 
about  with  no  thought  but  that  of  finding  safety 
until  the  worst  was  over.  That  one  of  them  traveled 
on  crutches  added  to  their  apparent  helplessness,  and 
that  he  could  not  speak  the  language  of  the  country 
made  him  more  an  object  of  pity.  The  peasants  did 
not  know  what  language  he  spoke.  Sometimes  a  for- 
eigner came  to  find  work  in  this  small  town  or  that. 
The  poor  lad  might  have  come  to  the  country  with  his 
father  and  mother  and  then  have  been  caught  in  the 
whirlpool  of  war  and  tossed  out  on  the  world  parent- 
less.  But  no  one  asked  questions.  Even  in  their 
desolation  they  were  a  silent  and  noble  people  who 
were  too  courteous  for  curiosity. 

"  In  the  old  days  they  were  simple  and  stately  and 
336 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

kind.  All  doors  were  open  to  travelers.  The  master 
of  the  poorest  hut  uttered  a  blessing  and  a  welcome 
when  a  stranger  crossed  his  threshold.  It  was  the 
custom  of  the  country,"  Marco  said.  "  I  read  about 
it  in  a  book  of  my  father's.  About  most  of  the  doors 
the  welcome  was  carved  in  the  stone.  It  was  this  — 
'  The  Blessing  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  Rest  within 
these  Walls.'  " 

"  They  are  big  and  strong,"  said  The  Rat.  "  And 
they  have  good  faces.  They  carry  themselves  as  if 
they  had  been  drilled  —  both  men  and  women." 

It  was  not  through  the  blood-drenched  part  of  the 
unhappy  land  their  way  led  them,  but  they  saw  hun- 
ger and  dread  in  the  villages  they  passed.  Crops 
which  should  have  fed  the  people  had  been  taken  from 
them  for  the  use  of  the  army;  flocks  and  herds  had 
been  driven  away,  and  faces  were  gaunt  and  gray. 
Those  who  had  as  yet  only  lost  crops  and  herds  knew 
that  homes  and  lives  might  be  torn  from  them  at  any 
moment.  Only  old  men  and  women  and  children 
were  left  to  wait  for  any  fate  which  the  chances  of 
war  might  deal  out  to  them. 

When  they  were  given  food  from  some  poor  store, 
Marco  would  offer  a  little  money  in  return.  He  dare 
not  excite  suspicion  by  offering  much.  He  was 
obliged  to  let  it  be  imagined  that  in  his  flight  from  his 
ruined  home  he  had  been  able  to  snatch  at  and  secrete 
some  poor  hoard  which  might  save  him  from  starva- 
tion. Often  the  women  would  not  take  what  he 
337 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

offered.  Their  journey  was  a  hard  and  hungry  one. 
They  must  make  it  all  on  foot  and  there  was  little  food 
to  be  found.  But  each  of  them  knew  how  to  live  on 
scant  fare.  They  traveled  mostly  by  night  and  slept 
among  the  ferns  and  undergrowth  through  the  day. 
They  drank  from  running  brooks  and  bathed  in  them. 
Moss  and  ferns  made  soft  and  sweet-smelling  beds, 
and  trees  roofed  them.  Sometimes  they  lay  long  and 
talked  while  they  rested.  And  at  length  a  day  came 
when  they  knew  they  were  nearing  their  journey's 
end. 

"  It  is  nearly  over  now,"  Marco  said,  after  they  had 
thrown  themselves  down  in  the  forest  in  the  early 
hours  of  one  dewy  morning.  "  He  said  '  After  Sama- 
via,  go  back  to  London  as  quickly  as  you  can  —  as 
quickly  as  you  can.'  He  said  it  twice.  As  if  — 
something  were  going  to  happen." 

"  Perhaps  it  will  happen  more  suddenly  than  we 
think  —  the  thing  he  meant,"  answered  The  Rat. 

Suddenly  he  sat  up  on  his  elbow  and  leaned  towards 
Marco. 

"  We  are  in  Samavia ! "  he  said.  "  We  two  are 
in  Samavia !     And  we  are  near  the  end !  " 

Marco  rose  on  his  elbow  also.  He  was  very  thin 
as  a  result  of  hard  travel  and  scant  feeding.  His  thin- 
ness made  his  eyes  look  immense  and  black  as  pits. 
But  they  burned  and  were  beautiful  with  their  own 
fire. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  breathing  quickly.  "  And  though 
338 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

we  do  not  know  what  the  end  will  be,  we  have  obeyed 
orders.  The  Prince  was  next  to  the  last  one.  There 
is  only  one  more.     The  old  priest." 

"  I  have  wanted  to  see  him  more  than  I  have  wanted 
to  see  any  of  the  others,"  The  Rat  said. 

"  So  have  I,"  Marco  answered.  "  His  church  is 
built  on  the  side  of  this  mountain.  I  wonder  what 
he  will  say  to  us." 

Both  had  the  same  reason  for  wanting  to  see  him. 
In  his  youth  he  had  served  in  the  monastery  over  the 
frontier  —  the  one  which,  till  it  was  destroyed  in  a 
revolt,  had  treasured  the  flve-hundred-year-old  story 
of  the  beautiful  royal  lad  brought  to  be  hidden  among 
the  brotherhood  by  the  ancient  shepherd.  In  the  mon- 
astery the  memory  of  the  Lost  Prince  was  as  the  mem- 
ory of  a  saint.  It  had  been  told  that  one  of  the  early 
brothers,  who  was  a  decorator  and  a  painter,  had  made 
a  picture  of  him  with  a  faint  halo  shining  about  his 
head.  The  young  acolyte  who  had  served  there  must 
have  heard  wonderful  legends.  But  the  monastery 
had  been  burned,  and  the  young  acolyte  had  in  later 
years  crossed  the  frontier  and  become  the  priest  of 
a  few  mountaineers  whose  little  church  clung  to  the 
mountain-side.  He  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully 
and  was  worshiped  by  his  people.  Only  the  secret 
Forgers  of  the  Sword  knew  that  his  most  ardent  wor- 
shipers were  those  with  whom  he  prayed  and  to  whom 
he  gave  blessings  in  dark  caverns  under  the  earth, 
where  arms  piled  themselves  and  men  with  dark  strong 
339 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

faces  sat  together  in  the  dim  light  and  laid  plans  and 
wrought  schemes. 

This  Marco  and  The  Rat  did  not  know  as  they 
talked  of  their  desire  to  see  him. 

"  He  may  not  choose  to  tell  us  anything,"  said 
Marco.  "  When  we  have  given  him  the  Sign,  he  may 
turn  away  and  say  nothing  as  some  of  the  others  did. 
He  may  have  nothing  to  say  which  we  should  hear. 
Silence  may  be  the  order  for  him,  too." 

It  would  not  be  a  long  or  dangerous  climb  to  the 
little  church  on  the  rock.  They  could  sleep  or  rest  all 
day  and  begin  it  at  twilight.  So  after  they  had  talked 
of  the  old  priest  and  had  eaten  their  black  bread,  they 
settled  themselves  to  sleep  under  cover  of  the  thick 
tall  ferns. 

It  was  a  long  and  deep  sleep  which  nothing  dis- 
turbed. So  few  human  beings  ever  climbed  the  hill, 
except  by  the  narrow  rough  path  leading  to  the  church, 
that  the  little  wild  creatures  had  not  learned  to  be 
afraid  of  them.  Once,  during  the  afternoon,  a  hare 
hopping  along  under  the  ferns  to  make  a  visit  stopped 
by  Marco's  head,  and,  after  looking  at  him  a  few  sec- 
onds with  his  lustrous  eyes,  began  to  nibble  the  ends 
of  his  hair.  He  only  did  it  from  curiosity  and  because 
he  wondered  if  it  might  be  a  new  kind  of  grass,  but 
he  did  not  like  it  and  stopped  nibbling  almost  at  once, 
after  which  he  looked  at  it  again,  moving  the  soft 
sensitive  end  of  his  nose  rapidly  for  a  second  or  so, 
and  then  hopped  away  to  attend  to  his  own  affairs. 
340 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

A  very  large  and  handsome  green  stag-beetle  crawled 
from  one  end  of  The  Rat's  crutches  to  the  other,  but, 
having  done  it,  he  went  away  also.  Two  or  three 
times  a  bird,  searching  for  his  dinner  under  the  fernst 
was  surprised  to  find  the  two  sleeping  figures,  but, 
as  they  lay  so  quietly,  there  seemed  nothing  to  be 
frightened  about.  A  beautiful  little  field  mouse  run- 
ning past  discovered  that  there  were  crumbs  lying 
about  and  ate  all  she  could  find  on  the  moss.  After 
that  she  crept  into  Marco's  pocket  and  found  some  ex- 
cellent ones  and  had  quite  a  feast.  But  she  disturbed 
nobody  and  the  boys  slept  on. 

It  was  a  bird's  evening  song  which  awakened  them 
both.  The  bird  alighted  on  the  branch  of  a  tree  near 
them  and  her  trill  was  rippling  clear  and  sweet.  The 
evening  air  had  freshened  and  was  fragrant  with  hill- 
side scents.  When  Marco  first  rolled  over  and  opened 
his  eyes,  he  thought  the  most  delicious  thing  on  earth 
was  to  waken  from  sleep  on  a  hillside  at  evening  and 
hear  a  bird  singing.  It  seemed  to  make  exquisitely 
real  to  him  the  fact  that  he  was  in  Samavia  —  that  the 
Lamp  was  lighted  and  his  work  was  nearly  done.  The 
Rat  awakened  when  he  did,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
both  lay  on  their  backs  without  speaking.  At  last 
Marco  said,  "  The  stars  are  coming  out.  We  can  be- 
gin to  climb,  Aide-de-camp." 

Then  they  both  got  up  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"  The  last  one !  "  The  Rat  said.  "  To-morrow  we 
shall  be  on  our  way  back  to  London  —  Number  7 
34i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Philibert  Place.  After  all  the  places  we  've  been  to  — 
what  will  it  look  like  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  like  wakening  out  of  a  dream,"  said 
Marco.  "  It 's  not  beautiful  —  Philibert  Place.  But 
he  will  be  there."  And  it  was  as  if  a  light  lighted 
itself  in  his  face  and  shone  through  the  very  darkness 
of  it. 

And  The  Rat's  face  lighted  in  almost  exactly  the 
same  way.  And  he  pulled  off  his  cap  and  stood  bare- 
headed. "  We  've  obeyed  orders,"  he  said.  "  We  've 
not  forgotten  one.  No  one  has  noticed  us,  no  one  has 
thought  of  us.  We  've  blown  through  the  countries 
as  if  we  had  been  grains  of  dust." 

Marco's  head  was  bared,  too,  and  his  face  was  still 
shining.  "God  be  thanked!"  he  said.  "Let  us  be- 
gin to  climb." 

They  pushed  their  way  through  the  ferns  and 
wandered  in  and  out  through  the  trees  until  they  found 
the  little  path.  The  hill  was  thickly  clothed  with  for- 
est and  the  little  path  was  sometimes  dark  and  steep; 
but  they  knew  that,  if  they  followed  it,  they  would  at 
last  come  out  to  a  place  where  there  were  scarcely  any 
trees  at  all,  and  on  a  crag  they  would  find  the  tiny 
church  waiting  for  them.  The  priest  might  not  be 
there.  They  might  have  to  wait  for  him,  but  he 
would  be  sure  to  come  back  for  morning  mass  and  for 
vespers,  wheresoever  he  wandered  between  times. 

There  were  many  stars  in  the  sky  when  at  last  a 
turn  of  the  path  showed  them  the  church  above  them. 
342 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

It  was  little  and  built  of  rough  stone.  It  looked  as  if 
the  priest  himself  and  his  scattered  flock  might  have 
broken  and  carried  or  rolled  bits  of  the  hill  to  put  it 
together.  It  had  the  small,  round,  mosque-like  sum- 
mit the  Turks  had  brought  into  Europe  in  centuries 
past.  It  was  so  tiny  that  it  would  hold  but  a  very- 
small  congregation  —  and  close  to  it  was  a  shed-like 
house,  which  was  of  course  the  priest's. 

The  two  boys  stopped  on  the  path  to  look  at  it. 

"  There  is  a  candle  burning  in  one  of  the  little  win- 
dows," said  Marco. 

"  There  is  a  well  near  the  door  —  and  some  one 
is  beginning  to  draw  water,"  said  The  Rat,  next.  "  It 
is  too  dark  to  see  who  it  is.     Listen !  " 

They  listened  and  heard  the  bucket  descend  on  the 
chains,  and  splash  in  the  water.  Then  it  was  drawn 
up,  and  it  seemed  some  one  drank  long.  Then  they 
saw  a  dim  figure  move  forward  and  stand  still.  Then 
they  heard  a  voice  begin  to  pray  aloud,  as  if  the  owner, 
being  accustomed  to  utter  solitude,  did  not  think  of 
earthly  hearers. 

"  Come,"   Marco   said.     And  they  went   forward. 

Because  the  stars  were  so  many  and  the  air  so  clear, 
the  priest  heard  their  feet  on  the  path,  and  saw  them 
almost  as  soon  as  he  heard  them.  He  ended  his  prayer 
and  watched  them  coming.  A  lad  on  crutches,  who 
moved  as  lightly  and  easily  as  a  bird  —  and  a  lad  who, 
even  yards  away,  was  noticeable  for  a  bearing  of  his 
body  which  was  neither  haughty  nor  proud  but  set 
343 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

him  somehow  aloof  from  every  other  lad  one  had  ever 
seen.  A  magnificent  lad  —  though,  as  he  drew  near, 
the  starlight  showed  his  face  thin  and  his  eyes  hollow 
as  if  with  fatigue  or  hunger. 

"  And  who  is  this  one  ?  "  the  old  priest  murmured 
to  himself.     "Who?" 

Marco  drew  up  before  him  and  made  a  respectful 
reverence.  Then  he  lifted  his  black  head,  squared  his 
shoulders  and  uttered  his  message  for  the  last  time. 

"  The  Lamp  is  lighted,  Father,"  he  said.  "  The 
Lamp  is  lighted." 

The  old  priest  stood  quite  still  and  gazed  into  his 
face.  The  next  moment  he  bent  his  head  so  that  he 
could  look  at  him  closely.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he 
were  frightened  and  wanted  to  make  sure  of  some- 
thing. At  the  moment  it  flashed  through  The  Rat's 
mind  that  the  old,  old  woman  on  the  mountain-top  had 
looked  frightened  in  something  the  same  way. 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  he  said.  "  My  eyes  are  not 
good.  If  I  had  a  light" — and  he  glanced  towards 
the  house. 

It  was  The  Rat  who,  with  one  whirl,  swung  through 
the  door  and  seized  the  candle.  He  guessed  what  he 
wanted.  He  held  it  himself  so  that  the  flare  fell  on 
Marco's  face. 

The  old  priest  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  He  gasped 
for  breath.  "  You  are  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan !  " 
he  cried.     "  It  is  his  son  who  brings  the  Sign." 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
344 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

Both  the  boys  heard  him  sobbing  and  praying  —  pray- 
ing and  sobbing  at  once. 

They  glanced  at  each  other.  The  Rat  was  bursting 
with  excitement,  but  he  felt  a  little  awkward  also  and 
wondered  what  Marco  would  do.  An  old  fellow  on 
his  knees,  crying,  made  a  chap  feel  as  if  he  didn't 
know  what  to  say.  Must  you  comfort  him  or  must 
you  let  him  go  on? 

Marco  only  stood  quite  still  and  looked  at  him  with 
understanding  and  gravity. 

"  Yes,  Father,"  he  said.  "  I  am  the  son  of  Stefan 
Loristan,  and  I  have  given  the  Sign  to  all.  You  are 
the  last  one.  The  Lamp  is  lighted.  I  could  weep  for 
gladness,  too." 

The  priest's  tears  and  prayers  ended.  He  rose  to 
his  feet  —  a  rugged- faced  old  man  with  long  and  thick 
white  hair  which  fell  on  his  shoulders  —  and  smiled  at 
Marco  while  his  eyes  were  still  wet. 

"  You  have  passed  from  one  country  to  another 
with  the  message?"  he  said.  "You  were  under  or- 
ders to  say  those  four  words  ? " 

"  Yes,  Father,"  answered  Marco. 

"  That  was  all?     You  were  to  say  no  more?  " 

"  I  know  no  more.  Silence  has  been  the  order 
since  I  took  my  oath  of  allegiance  when  I  was  a  child. 
I  was  not  old  enought  to  fight,  or  serve,  or  reason  about 
great  things.  All  I  could  do  was  to  be  silent,  and  to 
train  myself  to  remember,  and  be  ready  when  I  was 
called.  When  my  father  saw  I  was  ready,  he  trusted 
345 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

me  to  go  out  to  give  the  Sign.  He  told  me  the  four 
words.     Nothing  else." 

The  old  man  watched  him  with  a  wondering  face. 

"  If  Stefan  Loristan  does  not  know  best,"  he  said, 
"  who  does?  " 

"  He  always  knows,"  answered  Marco  proudly. 
"  Always."  He  waved  his  hand  like  a  young  king 
towards  The  Rat.  He  wanted  each  man  they  met  to 
understand  the  value  of  The  Rat.  "  He  chose  for  me 
this  companion,"  he  added.  "  I  have  done  nothing 
alone." 

"He  let  me  call  myself  his  aide-de-camp!"  burst 
forth  The  Rat.  "  I  would  be  cut  into  inch-long 
strips  for  him." 

Marco  translated. 

Then  the  priest  looked  at  The  Rat  and  slowly 
nodded  his  head.  "  Yes,"  he  said.  "  He  knew  best. 
He  always  knows  best.     That  I  see." 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  my  father's  son  ? " 
asked  Marco.     "  You  have  seen  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  answer;  "  but  I  have  seen  a  picture 
which  is  said  to  be  his  image  —  and  you  are  the  pic- 
ture's self.  It  is,  indeed,  a  strange  thing  that  two  of 
God's  creatures  should  be  so  alike.  There  is  a  pur- 
pose in  it."  He  led  them  into  his  bare  small  house 
and  made  them  rest,  and  drink  goat's  milk,  and  eat 
food.  As  he  moved  about  the  hut-like  place,  there 
was  a  mysterious  and  exalted  look  on  his  face. 

"  You  must  be  refreshed  before  we  leave  here,"  he 
346 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

said,  at  last.  "  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  a  place  hid- 
den in  the  mountain  where  there  are  men  whose  hearts 
will  leap  at  the  sight  of  you.  To  see  you  will  give 
them  new  power  and  courage  and  new  resolve.  To- 
night they  meet  as  they  or  their  ancestors  have  met  for 
centuries,  but  now  they  are  nearing  the  end  of  their 
waiting.  And  I  shall  bring  them  the  son  of  Stefan 
Loristan,  who  is  the  Bearer  of  the  Sign !  " 

They  ate  the  bread  and  cheese  and  drank  the  goat's 
milk  he  gave  them,  but  Marco  explained  that  they  did 
not  need  rest  as  they  had  slept  all  day.  They  were 
prepared  to  follow  him  when  he  was  ready. 

The  last  faint  hint  of  twilight  had  died  into  night 
and  the  stars  were  at  their  thickest  when  they  set  out 
together.  The  white-haired  old  man  took  a  thick 
knotted  staff  in  his  hand  and  led  the  way.  He  knew 
it  well,  though  it  was  a  rugged  and  steep  one  with  no 
track  to  mark  it.  Sometimes  they  seemed  to  be  walk- 
ing around  the  mountain,  sometimes  they  were  climb- 
ing, sometimes  they  dragged  themselves  over  rocks  or 
fallen  trees,  or  struggled  through  almost  impassable 
thickets;  more  than  once  they  descended  into  ravines 
and,  almost  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  clambered  and 
drew  themselves  with  the  aid  of  the  undergrowth  up 
the  other  side.  The  Rat  was  called  upon  to  use  all 
his  prowess,  and  sometimes  Marco  and  the  priest 
helped  him  across  obstacles  with  the  aid  of  his 
crutch. 

"  Have  n't  I  shown  to-night  whether  I  'm  a  cripple 
347 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

or  not?  "  he  said  once  to  Marco.  "  You  can  tell  him 
about  this,  can't  you?  And  that  the  crutches  helped 
instead  of  being  in  the  way?  " 

They  had  been  out  nearly  two  hours  when  they  came 
to  a  place  where  the  undergrowth  was  thick  and  a 
huge  tree  had  fallen  crashing  down  among  it  in  some 
storm.  Not  far  from  the  tree  was  an  outcropping 
rock.  Only  the  top  of  it  was  to  be  seen  above  the 
heavy  tangle. 

t  They  had  pushed  their  way  through  the  jungle  of 
bushes  and  young  saplings,  led  by  their  companion. 
They  did  not  know  where  they  would  be  led  next  and 
were  prepared  to  push  forward  further  when  the  priest 
stopped  by  the  outcropping  rock.  He  stood  silent 
a  few  minutes  —  quite  motionless  —  as  if  he  were  lis- 
tening to  the  forest  and  the  night.  But  there  was 
utter  stillness.  There  was  not  even  a  breeze  to  stir  a 
leaf,  or  a  half-wakened  bird  to  sleepily  chirp. 

He  struck  the  rock  with  his  staff  —  twice,  and  then 
twice  again. 

Marco  and  The  Rat  stood  with  bated  breath. 

They  did  not  wait  long.  Presently  each  of  them 
found  himself  leaning  forward,  staring  with  almost 
unbelieving  eyes,  not  at  the  priest  or  his  staff,  but  at 
the  rock  itself! 

It    was    moving!     Yes,      it    moved.     The    priest 

stepped  aside  and  it  slowly  turned,  as  if  worked  by  a 

lever.     As  it  turned,  it  gradually  revealed  a  chasm  of 

darkness  dimly  lighted,  and  the  priest  spoke  to  Marco. 

348 


ACROSS  THE  FRONTIER 

"  There  are  hiding-places  like  this  all  through  Sama- 
via,"  he  said.  "  Patience  and  misery  have  waited  long 
in  them.  They  are  the  caverns  of  the  Forgers  of  the 
Sword.     Come ! " 


349 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
"it  is  the  lost  prince,     it  is  ivor!" 

MANY  times  since  their  journey  had  begun  the 
boys  had  found  their  hearts  beating  with  the 
thrill  and  excitement  of  things.  The  story  of  which 
their  lives  had  been  a  part  was  a  pulse-quickening  ex- 
perience. But  as  they  carefully  made  their  way  down 
the  steep  steps  leading  seemingly  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  both  Marco  and  The  Rat  felt  as  though  the  old 
priest  must  hear  the  thudding  in  their  young  sides. 

" '  The  Forgers  of  the  Sword.'  Remember  every 
word  they  say,"  The  Rat  whispered,  "  so  that  you  can 
tell  it  to  me  afterwards.  Don't  forget  anything!  I 
wish  I  knew  Samavian." 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  stood  the  man  who  was 
evidently  the  sentinel  who  worked  the  lever  that  turned 
the  rock.  He  was  a  big  burly  peasant  with  a  good 
watchful  face,  and  the  priest  gave  him  a  greeting  and 
a  blessing  as  he  took  from  him  the  lantern  he  held  out. 

They  went  through  a  narrow  and  dark  passage, 

and  down  some  more  steps,  and  turned  a  corner  into 

another  corridor  cut  out  of  rock  and  earth.     It  was  a 

wider  corridor,  but  still  dark,  so  that  Marco  and  The 

350 


"IT  IS  THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS  IVOR!" 

Rat  had  walked  some  yards  before  their  eyes  became 
sufficiently  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  to  see  that  the 
walls  themselves  seemed  made  of  arms  stacked  closely 
together. 

"  The  Forgers  of  the  Sword! "  The  Rat  was  uncon- 
sciously mumbling  to  himself,  "  The  Forgers  of  the 
Sword !  " 

It  must  have  taken  years  to  cut  out  the  rounding 
passage  they  threaded  their  way  through,  and  longer 
years  to  forge  the  solid,  bristling  walls.  But  The  Rat 
remembered  the  story  the  stranger  had  told  his 
drunken  father,  of  the  few  mountain  herdsmen  who, 
in  their  savage  grief  and  wrath  over  the  loss  of  their 
prince,  had  banded  themselves  together  with  a  solemn 
oath  which  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation.  The  Samavians  were  a  long-memoried 
people,  and  the  fact  that  their  passion  must  be  smoth- 
ered had  made  it  burn  all  the  more  fiercely.  Five  hun- 
dred years  ago  they  had  first  sworn  their  oath;  and 
kings  had  come  and  gone,  had  died  or  been  murdered, 
and  dynasties  had  changed,  but  the  Forgers  of  the 
Sword  had  not  changed  or  forgotten  their  oath  or 
wavered  in  their  belief  that  some  time  —  some  time, 
even  after  the  long  dark  years  —  the  soul  of  their  Lost 
Prince  would  be  among  them  once  more,  and  that  they 
would  kneel  at  the  feet  and  kiss  the  hands  of  him  for 
whose  body  that  soul  had  been  reborn.  And  for  the 
last  hundred  years  their  number  and  power  and  their 
hiding  places  had  so  increased  that  Samavia  was  at 
35i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

last  honeycombed  with  them.  And  they  only  waited, 
breathless, —  for  the  Lighting  of  the  Lamp. 

The  old  priest  knew  how  breathlessly,  and  he  knew 
what  he  was  bringing  them.  Marco  and  The  Rat, 
in  spite  of  their  fond  boy-imaginings,  were  not  quite 
old  enough  to  know  how  fierce  and  full  of  flaming 
eagerness  the  breathless  waiting  of  savage  full-grown 
men  could  be.  But  there  was  a  tense-strung  thrill  in 
knowing  that  they  who  were  being  led  to  them  were 
the  Bearers  of  the  Sign.  The  Rat  went  hot  and  cold; 
he  gnawed  his  fingers  as  he  went.  He  could  almost 
have  shrieked  aloud,  in  the  intensity  of  his  excite- 
ment, when  the  old  priest  stopped  before  a  big  black 
door! 

Marco  made  no  sound.  Excitement  or  danger  al- 
ways made  him  look  tall  and  quite  pale.  He  looked 
both  now. 

The  priest  touched  the  door,  and  it  opened. 

They  were  looking  into  an  immense  cavern.  Its 
walls  and  roof  were  lined  with  arms  —  guns,  swords, 
bayonets,  javelins,  daggers,  pistols,  every  weapon  a 
desperate  man  might  use.  The  place  was  full  of  men, 
who  turned  towards  the  door  when  it  opened.  They 
all  made  obeisance  to  the  priest,  but  Marco  realized 
almost  at  the  same  instant  that  they  started  on  seeing 
that  he  was  not  alone. 

They  were  a  strange  and  picturesque  crowd  as  they 
stood  under  their  canopy  of  weapons  in  the  lurid 
torchlight.  Marco  saw  at  once  that  they  were  men 
352 


"IT  IS  THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS  IVOR!" 

of  all  classes,  though  all  were  alike  roughly  dressed. 
There  were  huge  mountaineers,  and  plainsmen  young 
and  mature  in  years.  Some  of  the  biggest  were 
men  with  white  hair  but  with  the  bodies  of  giants, 
and  with  determination  in  their  strong  jaws.  There 
were  many  of  these,  Marco  saw,  and  in  each  man's 
eyes,  whether  he  were  young  or  old,  glowed  a  steady 
unconquered  flame.  They  had  been  beaten  so  often, 
they  had  been  oppressed  and  robbed,  but  in  the  eyes 
of  each  one  was  this  unconquered  flame  which, 
throughout  all  the  long  tragedy  of  years  had  been 
handed  down  from  father  to  son.  It  was  this  which 
had  gone  on  through  centuries,  keeping  its  oath  and 
forging  its  swords  in  the  caverns  of  the  earth,  and 
which  to-day  was  —  waiting. 

The  old  priest  laid  his  hand  on  Marco's  shoulder, 
and  gently  pushed  him  before  him  through  the  crowd 
which  parted  to  make  way  for  them.  He  did  not  stop 
until  the  two  stood  in  the  very  midst  of  the  circle, 
which  fell  back  gazing  wonderingly.  Marco  looked 
up  at  the  old  man  because  for  several  seconds  he  did 
not  speak.  It  was  plain  that  he  did  not  speak  because 
he  also  was  excited,  and  could  not.  He  opened  his 
lips  and  his  voice  seemed  to  fail  him.  Then  he  tried 
again  and  spoke  so  that  all  could  hear  —  even  the  men 
at  the  back  of  the  gazing  circle. 

"  My  children,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  son  of  Stefan 
Loristan,  and  he  comes  to  bear  the  Sign.  My  son," 
to  Marco,  "  speak !  " 

353 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Then  Marco  understood  what  he  wished,  and  also 
what  he  felt.  He  felt  it  himself,  that  magnificent  up- 
lifting gladness,  as  he  spoke,  holding  his  black  head 
high  and  lifting  his  right  hand. 

"  The  Lamp  is  Lighted,  brothers !  "  he  cried.  "  The 
Lamp  is  Lighted !  " 

Then  The  Rat,  who  stood  apart,  watching,  thought 
that  the  strange  world  within  the  cavern  had  gone  mad ! 
Wild  smothered  cries  broke  forth,  men  caught  each 
other  in  passionate  embrace,  they  fell  upon  their  knees, 
they  clutched  one  another  sobbing,  they  wrung  each 
other's  hands,  they  leaped  into  the  air.  It  was  as  if 
they  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  hearing  that  the  end  of 
their  waiting  had  come  at  last.  They  rushed  upon 
Marco,  and  fell  at  his  feet.  The  Rat  saw  big  peasants 
kissing  his  shoes,  his  hands,  every  scrap  of  his  cloth- 
ing they  could  seize.  The  wild  circle  swayed  and 
closed  upon  him  until  The  Rat  was  afraid.  He  did 
not  know  that,  overpowered  by  this  frenzy  of  emo- 
tion, his  own  excitement  was  making  him  shake  from 
head  to  foot  like  a  leaf,  and  that  tears  were  streaming 
down  his  cheeks.  The  swaying  crowd  hid  Marco  from 
him,  and  he  began  to  fight  his  way  towards  him  be- 
cause his  excitement  increased  his  fear.  The  ecstasy 
frenzied  crowd  of  men  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have 
almost  ceased  to  be  sane.  Marco  was  only  a  boy. 
They  did  not  know  how  fiercely  they  were  pressing 
upon  him  and  keeping  away  the  very  air. 

"  Don't  kill  him !  Don't  kill  him !  "  yelled  The  Rat, 
354 


"IT  IS  THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS  IVOR!" 

struggling  forward.  "  Stand  back,  you  fools !  I  'm 
his  aide-de-camp !     Let  me  pass !  " 

And  though  no  one  understood  his  English,  one  or 
two  suddenly  remembered  they  had  seen  him  enter 
with  the  priest  and  so  gave  way.  But  just  then  the 
old  priest  himself  lifted  his  hand  above  the  crowd,  and 
spoke  in  a  voice  of  stern  command. 

"  Stand  back,  my  children !  "  he  cried.  "  Madness 
is  not  the  homage  you  must  bring  to  the  son  of  Stefan 
Loristan.  Obey !  Obey ! "  His  voice  had  a  power 
in  it  that  penetrated  even  the  wildest  herdsmen.  The 
frenzied  mass  swayed  back  and  left  space  about  Marco, 
whose  face  The  Rat  could  at  last  see.  It  was  very 
white  with  emotion,  and  in  his  eyes  there  was  a  look 
which  was  like  awe. 

The  Rat  pushed  forward  until  he  stood  beside 
him.  He  did  not  know  that  he  almost  sobbed  as  he 
spoke. 

"  I  'm  your  aide-de-camp,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  going 
to  stand  here !  Your  father  sent  me !  I  'm  under 
orders !     I  thought  they  'd  crush  you  to  death." 

He  glared  at  the  circle  about  them  as  if,  instead  of 
worshippers  distraught  with  adoration,  they  had  been 
enemies.  The  old  priest  seeing  him,  touched  Marco's 
arm. 

"  Tell  him  he  need  not  fear,"  he  said.  "  It  was  only 
for  the  first  few  moments.  The  passion  of  their  souls 
drove  them  wild.     They  are  your  slaves." 

"  Those  at  the  back  might  have  pushed  the  front 
355 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

ones  on  until  they  trampled  you  under  foot  in  spite  of 
themselves ! "  The  Rat  persisted. 

"  No,"  said  Marco.  "  They  would  have  stopped  if 
I  had  spoken." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  speak  then  ?  "  snapped  The  Rat. 

"All  they  felt  was  for  Samavia,  and  for  my 
father,"  Marco  said,  "  and  for  the  Sign.  I  felt  as 
they  did." 

The  Rat  was  somewhat  softened.  It  was  true,  after 
all.  How  could  he  have  tried  to  quell  the  outburst  of 
their  worship  of  Loristan  —  of  the  country  he  was 
saving  for  them  —  of  the  Sign  which  called  them  to 
freedom?    He  could  not. 

Then  followed  a  strange  and  picturesque  ceremo- 
nial. The  priest  went  about  among  the  encircling 
crowd  and  spoke  to  one  man  after  another  —  some- 
times to  a  group.  A  larger  circle  was  formed.  As 
the  pale  old  man  moved  about,  The  Rat  felt  as  if  some 
religious  ceremony  were  going  to  be  performed. 
Watching  it  from  first  to  last,  he  was  thrilled  to  the 
core. 

At  the  end  of  the  cavern  a  block  of  stone  had  been 
cut  out  to  look  like  an  altar.  It  was  covered  with 
white,  and  against  the  wall  above  it  hung  a  large  pic- 
ture veiled  by  a  curtain.  From  the  roof  there  swung 
before  it  an  ancient  lamp  of  metal  suspended  by  chains. 
In  front  of  the  altar  was  a  sort  of  stone  dais.  There 
the  priest  asked  Marco  to  stand,  with  his  aide-de- 
camp on  the  lower  level  in  attendance.  A  knot  of  the 
356 


"IT  IS  THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS  IVOR!" 

biggest  herdsmen  went  out  and  returned.  Each  car- 
ried a  huge  sword  which  had  perhaps  been  of  the 
earliest  made  in  the  dark  days  gone  by.  The  bearers 
formed  themselves  into  a  line  on  either  side  of  Marco. 
They  raised  their  swords  and  formed  a  pointed  arch 
above  his  head  and  a  passage  twelve  men  long.  When 
the  points  first  clashed  together  The  Rat  struck  him- 
self hard  upon  his  breast.  His  exultation  was  too 
keen  to  endure.  He  gazed  at  Marco  standing  still  — 
in  that  curiously  splendid  way  in  which  both  he 
and  his  father  could  stand  still  —  and  wondered 
how  he  could  do  it.  He  looked  as  if  he  were 
prepared  for  any  strange  thing  which  could  hap- 
pen to  him  —  because  he  was  "  under  orders." 
The  Rat  knew  that  he  was  doing  whatsoever  he  did 
merely  for  his  father's  sake.  It  was  as  if  he  felt  that 
he  was  representing  his  father,  though  he  was  a  mere 
boy;  and  that  because  of  this,  boy  as  he  was,  he  must 
bear  himself  nobly  and  remain  outwardly  undisturbed. 
At  the  end  of  the  arch  of  swords,  the  old  priest 
stood  and  gave  a  sign  to  one  man  after  another. 
When  the  sign  was  given  to  a  man  he  walked  under 
the  arch  to  the  dais,  and  there  knelt  and,  lifting  Mar- 
co's hand  to  his  lips,  kissed  it  with  passionate  fervor. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  place  he  had  left.  One  after 
another  passed  up  the  aisle  of  swords,  one  after  an- 
other knelt,  one  after  the  other  kissed  the  brown  young 
hand,  rose  and  went  away.  Sometimes  The  Rat  heard 
a  few  words  which  sounded  almost  like  a  murmured 
357 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

prayer,  sometimes  he  heard  a  sob  as  a  shaggy  head 
bent,  again  and  again  he  saw  eyes  wet  with  tears. 
Once  or  twice  Marco  spoke  a  few  Samavian  words, 
and  the  face  of  the  man  spoken  to  flamed  with  joy. 
The  Rat  had  time  to  see,  as  Marco  had  seen,  that 
many  of  the  faces  were  not  those  of  peasants.  Some 
of  them  were  clear  cut  and  subtle  and  of  the  type  of 
scholars  or  nobles.  It  took  a  long  time  for  them  all 
to  kneel  and  kiss  the  lad's  hand,  but  no  man  omitted 
the  ceremony;  and  when  at  last  it  was  at  an  end,  a 
strange  silence  filled  the  cavern.  They  stood  and 
gazed  at  each  other  with  burning  eyes. 

The  priest  moved  to  Marco's  side,  and  stood  near 
the  altar.  He  leaned  forward  and  took  in  his  hand 
a  cord  which  hung  from  the  veiled  picture  —  he  drew 
it  and  the  curtain  fell  apart.  There  seemed  to  stand 
gazing  at  them  from  between  its  folds  a  tall  kingly 
youth  with  deep  eyes  in  which  the  stars  of  God  were 
stilly  shining,  and  with  a  smile  wonderful  to  behold. 
Around  the  heavy  locks  of  his  black  hair  the  long  dead 
painter  of  missals  had  set  a  faint  glow  of  light  like  a 
halo. 

"  Son  of  Stefan  Loristan,"  the  old  priest  said,  in 
a  shaken  voice,  "  it  is  the  Lost  Prince !     It  is  Ivor !  " 

Then  every  man  in  the  room  fell  on  his  knees. 
Even  the  men  who  had  upheld  the  archway  of  swords 
dropped  their  weapons  with  a  crash  and  knelt  also. 
He  was  their  saint  —  this  boy!  Dead  for  five  hun- 
dred years,  he  was  their  saint  still. 
358 


"IT  IS  THE  LOST  PRINCE.     IT  IS  IVOR!" 

"Ivor!  Ivor!"  the  voices  broke  into  a  heavy 
murmur.  "Ivor!  Ivor!"  As  if  they  chanted  a  lit- 
any. 

Marco  started  forward,  staring  at  the  picture,  his 
breath  caught  in  his  throat,  his  lips  apart. 

"But —  but — "  he  stammered,  "but  if  my  father 
were  as  young  as  he  is  —  he  would  be  like  him !  " 

"  When  you  are  as  old  as  he  is,  you  will  be  like 
him —  You!  "  said  the  priest.  And  he  let  the  curtain 
fall. 

The  Rat  stood  staring  with  wide  eyes  from  Marco 
to  the  picture  and  from  the  picture  to  Marco.  And 
he  breathed  faster  and  faster  and  gnawed  his  finger 
ends.  But  he  did  not  utter  a  word.  He  could  not 
have  done  it,  if  he  had  tried. 

Then  Marco  stepped  down  from  the  dais  as  if  he 
were  in  a  dream,  and  the  old  man  followed  him.  The 
men  with  the  swords  sprang  to  their  feet  and  made 
their  archway  again  with  a  new  clash  of  steel.  The 
old  man  and  the  boy  passed  under  it  together.  Now 
every  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Marco.  At  the  heavy 
door  by  which  he  had  entered,  he  stopped  and  turned 
to  meet  their  glances.  He  looked  very  young  and  thin 
and  pale,  but  suddenly  his  father's  smile  was  lighted 
in  his  face.  He  said  a  few  words  in  Samavian 
clearly  and  gravely,  saluted,  and  passed  out. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  them  ?  "  gasped  The  Rat, 
stumbling  after  him  as  the  door  closed  behind  them 
and  shut  in  the  murmur  of  impassioned  sound. 
359 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  There  was  only  one  thing  to  say,"  was  the  answer. 
"  They  are  men  —  I  am  only  a  boy.  I  thanked  them 
for  my  father,  and  told  them  he  would  never  —  never 
forget." 


360 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"  EXTRA !       EXTRA !       EXTRA !  " 

IT  was  raining  in  London  —  pouring.  It  had 
been  raining  for  two  weeks,  more  or  less,  gen- 
erally more.  When  the  train  from  Dover  drew  in  at 
Charing  Cross,  the  weather  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
considered  that  it  had  so  far  been  too  lenient  and  must 
express  itself  much  more  vigorously.  So  it  had  gath- 
ered together  its  resources  and  poured  them  forth  in 
a  deluge  which  surprised  even  Londoners.  The  rain 
so  beat  against  and  streamed  down  the  windows  of  the 
third-class  carriage  in  which  Marco  and  The  Rat  sat 
that  they  could  not  see  through  them. 

They  had  made  their  homeward  journey  much  more 
rapidly  than  they  had  made  the  one  on  which  they  had 
been  outward  bound.  It  had  of  course  taken  them 
some  time  to  tramp  back  to  the  frontier,  but  there  had 
been  no  reason  for  stopping  anywhere  after  they  had 
once  reached  the  railroads.  They  had  been  tired  some- 
times, but  they  had  slept  heavily  on  the  wooden  seats 
of  the  railway  carriages.  Their  one  desire  was  to  get 
home.  No.  7  Philibert  Place  rose  before  them  in  its 
noisy  dinginess  as  the  one  desirable  spot  on  earth.  To 
361 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Marco  it  held  his  father.  And  it  was  Loristan  alone 
that  The  Rat  saw  when  he  thought  of  it.  Loristan  as 
he  would  look  when  he  saw  him  come  into  the  room 
with  Marco,  and  stand  up  and  salute,  and  say:  "  I  have 
brought  him  back,  sir.  He  has  carried  out  every 
single  order  you  gave  him  —  every  single  one.  So 
have  I."  So  he  had.  He  had  been  sent  as  his  com- 
panion and  attendant,  and  he  had  been  faithful  in 
every  thought.  If  Marco  would  have  allowed  him,  he 
would  have  waited  upon  him  like  a  servant,  and  have 
been  proud  of  the  service.  But  Marco  would  never 
let  him  forget  that  they  were  only  two  boys  and  that 
one  was  of  no  more  importance  than  the  other.  He 
had  secretly  even  felt  this  attitude  to  be  a  sort  of  griev- 
ance. It  would  have  been  more  like  a  game  if  one  of 
them  had  been  the  mere  servitor  of  the  other,  and  if 
that  other  had  blustered  a  little,  and  issued  commands, 
and  demanded  sacrifices.  If  the  faithful  vassal  could 
have  been  wounded  or  cast  into  a  dungeon  for  his 
young  commander's  sake,  the  adventure  would  have 
been  more  complete.  But  though  their  journey  had 
been  full  of  wonders  and  rich  with  beauties,  though 
the  memory  of  it  hung  in  The  Rat's  mind  like  a  back- 
ground of  tapestry  embroidered  in  all  the  hues  of  the 
earth  with  all  the  splendors  of  it,  there  had  been  no 
dungeons  and  no  wounds.  After  the  adventure  in 
Munich  their  unimportant  boyishness  had  not  even 
been  observed  by  such  perils  as  might  have  threatened 
them.  As  The  Rat  had  said,  they  had  "  blown  like 
362 


"EXTRA!    EXTRA!    EXTRA!" 

grains  of  dust "  through  Europe  and  had  been  as  noth- 
ing. And  this  was  what  Loristan  had  planned,  this 
was  what  his  grave  thought  had  wrought  out.  If 
they  had  been  men,  they  would  not  have  been  so  safe. 
From  the  time  they  had  left  the  old  priest  on  the 
hillside  to  begin  their  journey  back  to  the  frontier,  they 
both  had  been  given  to  long  silences  as  they  tramped 
side  by  side  or  lay  on  the  moss  in  the  forests.  Now 
that  their  work  was  done,  a  sort  of  reaction  had  set 
in.  There  were  no  more  plans  to  be  made  and 
no  more  uncertainties  to  contemplate.  They  were  on 
their  way  back  to  No.  7  Philibert  Place  —  Marco  to 
his  father,  The  Rat  to  the  man  he  worshipped.  Each 
of  them  was  thinking  of  many  things.  Marco  was 
full  of  longing  to  see  his  father's  face  and  hear  his 
voice  again.  He  wanted  to  feel  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder  —  to  be  sure  that  he  was  real  and 
not  a  dream.  This  last  was  because  during  this  home- 
ward journey  everything  that  had  happened  often 
seemed  to  be  a  dream.  It  had  all  been  so  wonderful  — 
the  climber  standing  looking  down  at  them  the  morn- 
ing they  awakened  on  the  Gaisburg;  the  mountaineer 
shoemaker  measuring  his  foot  in  the  small  shop;  the 
old,  old  woman  and  her  noble  lord;  the  prince  with 
his  face  turned  upward  as  he  stood  on  the  balcony  look- 
ing at  the  moon;  the  old  priest  kneeling  and  weeping 
for  joy;  the  great  cavern  with  the  yellow  light  upon 
the  crowd  of  passionate  faces;  the  curtain  which  fell 
apart  and  showed  the  still  eyes  and  the  black  hair  with 
363 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  halo  about  it!  Now  that  they  were  left  behind, 
they  all  seemed  like  things  he  had  dreamed.  But  he 
had  not  dreamed  them;  he  was  going  back  to  tell  his 
father  about  them.  And  how  good  it  would  be  to 
feel  his  hand  on  his  shoulder! 

The  Rat  gnawed  his  finger  ends  a  great  deal.  His 
thoughts  were  more  wild  and  feverish  than  Marco's. 
They  leaped  forward  in  spite  of  him.  It  was  no  use 
to  pull  himself  up  and  tell  himself  that  he  was  a  fool. 
Now  that  all  was  over,  he  had  time  to  be  as  great  a 
fool  as  he  was  inclined  to  be.  But  how  he  longed  to 
reach  London  and  stand  face  to  face  with  Loristan! 
The  Sign  was  given.  The  Lamp  was  lighted.  What 
would  happen  next?  His  crutches  were  under  his 
arms  before  the  train  drew  up. 

"  We  're  there !  We  're  there !  "  he  cried  restlessly 
to  Marco.  They  had  no  luggage  to  delay  them. 
They  took  their  bags  and  followed  the  crowd  along  the 
platform.  The  rain  was  rattling  like  bullets  against 
the  high  glassed  roof.  People  turned  to  look  at  Marco, 
seeing  the  glow  of  exultant  eagerness  in  his  face. 
They  thought  he  must  be  some  boy  coming  home  for 
the  holidays  and  going  to  make  a  visit  at  a  place  he 
delighted  in.  The  rain  was  dancing  on  the  pavements 
when  they  reached  the  entrance. 

"  A  cab  won't  cost  much,"  Marco  said,  "  and  it  will 
take  us  quickly." 

They  called  one  and  got  into  it.  Each  of  them  had 
flushed  cheeks,  and  Marco's  eyes  looked  as  if  he  were 
364 


"EXTRA!     EXTRA!     EXTRA!" 

gazing  at  something  a  long  way  off  —  gazing  at  it, 
and  wondering. 

"  We  've  come  back !  "  said  The  Rat,  in  an  unsteady 
voice.  "  We  've  been  —  and  we  've  come  back !  " 
Then  suddenly  turning  to  look  at  Marco,  "  Does  it  ever 
seem  to  you  as  if,  perhaps,  it  —  it  was  n't  true?  " 

"Yes,"  Marco  answered,  "  but  it  was  true.  And 
it 's  done."  Then  he  added  after  a  second  or  so  of 
silence,  just  what  The  Rat  had  said  to  himself,  "  What 
next  ?  "     He  said  it  very  low. 

The  way  to  Philibert  Place  was  not  long.  When 
they  turned  into  the  roaring,  untidy  road,  where  the 
busses  and  drays  and  carts  struggled  past  each  other 
with  their  loads,  and  the  tired-faced  people  hurried  in 
crowds  along  the  pavement,  they  looked  at  them  all 
feeling  that  they  had  left  their  dream  far  behind  in- 
deed.    But  they  were  at  home. 

It  was  a  good  thing  to  see  Lazarus  open  the  door 
and  stand  waiting  before  they  had  time  to  get  out  of 
the  cab.  Cabs  stopped  so  seldom  before  houses  in 
Philibert  Place  that  the  inmates  were  always  prompt 
to  open  their  doors.  When  Lazarus  had  seen  this  one 
stop  at  the  broken  iron  gate,  he  had  known  whom  it 
brought.  He  had  kept  an  eye  on  the  windows  faith- 
fully for  many  a  day  —  even  when  he  knew  that  it 
was  too  soon,  even  if  all  was  well,  for  any  travelers 
to  return. 

He  bore  himself  with  an  air  more  than  usually  mili- 
tary and  his  salute  when  Marco  crossed  the  threshold 
365 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

was  formal  stateliness  itself.  But  his  greeting  burst 
from  his  heart. 

"  God  be  thanked!  "  he  said  in  his  deep  growl  of  joy. 
"  God  be  thanked !  " 

When  Marco  put  forth  his  hand,  he  bent  his  grizzled 
head  and  kissed  it  devoutly. 

"  God  be  thanked !  "  he  said  again. 

"  My  father?  "  Marco  began,  "  my  father  is  out?  " 
If  he  had  been  in  the  house,  he  knew  he  would  not  have 
stayed  in  the  back  sitting-room. 

"  Sir,"  said  Lazarus,  "  will  you  come  with  me  into 
his  room?  You,  too,  sir,"  to  The  Rat.  He  had 
never  said  "  sir  "  to  him  before. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  familiar  room,  and  the 
boys  entered.     The  room  was  empty. 

Marco  did  not  speak;  neither  did  The  Rat.  They 
both  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  shabby  carpet  and 
looked  up  at  the  old  soldier.  Both  had  suddenly  the 
same  feeling  that  the  earth  had  dropped  from  beneath 
their  feet.  Lazarus  saw  it  and  spoke  fast  and  with 
tremor.     He  was  almost  as  agitated  as  they  were. 

"  He  left  me  at  your  service  —  at  your  command  " — 
he  began. 

"Left  you?"  said  Marco. 

"  He  left  us,  all  three,  under  orders  —  to  wait,"  said 
Lazarus.     "  The  Master  has  gone." 

The  Rat  felt  something  hot  rush  into  his  eyes.  He 
brushed  it  away  that  he  might  look  at  Marco's  face. 
The  shock  had  changed  it  very  much.  Its  glowing 
366 


"EXTRA!     EXTRA!     EXTRA!" 

eager  joy  had  died  out,  it  had  turned  paler  and  his 
brows  were  drawn  together.  For  a  few  seconds  he 
did  not  speak  at  all,  and,  when  he  did  speak,  The  Rat 
knew  that  his  voice  was  steady  only  because  he  willed 
that  it  should  be  so. 

"If  he  has  gone,"  he  said,  "  it  is  because  he  had  a 
strong  reason.  It  was  because  he  also  was  under  or- 
ders." 

"  He  said  that  you  would  know  that,"  Lazarus 
answered.  "  He  was  called  in  such  haste  that  he  had 
not  a  moment  in  which  to  do  more  than  write  a  few 
words.     He  left  them  for  you  on  his  desk  there." 

Marco  walked  over  to  the  desk  and  opened  the  en- 
velope which  was  lying  there.  There  were  only  a  few 
lines  on  the  sheet  of  paper  inside  and  they  had  evi- 
dently been  written  in  the  greatest  haste.  They  were 
these : 

"  The  Life  of  my  life  —  for  Samavia." 

"  He  was  called  —  to  Samavia,"  Marco  said,  and 
the  thought  sent  his  blood  rushing  through  his  veins. 
"  He  has  gone  to  Samavia !  " 

Lazarus  drew  his  hand  roughly  across  his  eyes  and 
his  voice  shook  and  sounded  hoarse. 

"  There  has  been  great  disaffection  in  the  camps  of 
the  Maranovitch,"  he  said.  "  The  remnant  of  the 
army  has  gone  mad.  Sir,  silence  is  still  the  order,  but 
who  knows  —  who  knows  ?     God  alone." 

He  had  not  finished  speaking  before  he  turned  his 
head  as  if  listening  to  sounds  in  the  road.  They  were 
367 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

the  kind  of  sounds  which  had  broken  up  The  Squad, 
and  sent  it  rushing  down  the  passage  into  the  street  to 
seize  on  a  newspaper.  There  was  to  be  heard  a  com- 
motion of  newsboys  shouting  riotously  some  startling 
piece  of  news  which  had  called  out  an  "  Extra." 

The  Rat  had  heard  it  first  and  dashed  to  the  front 
door.  As  he  opened  it  a  newsboy  running  by  shouted 
at  the  topmost  power  of  his  lungs  the  news  he  had  to 
sell:  "Assassination  of  King  Michael  Maranovitch 
by  his  own  soldiers!  Assassination  of  the  Maran- 
ovitch!    Extra!     Extra!     Extra!" 

When  The  Rat  returned  with  a  newspaper,  Lazarus 
interposed  between  him  and  Marco  with  great  and  re- 
spectful ceremony.  "  Sir,"  he  said  to  Marco,  "  I  am 
at  your  command,  but  the  Master  left  with  me  an 
order  which  I  was  to  repeat  to  you.  He  requested  you 
not  to  read  the  newspapers  until  he  himself  could  see 
you  again." 

Both  boys  fell  back. 

"  Not  read  the  papers !  "  they  exclaimed  together. 

Lazarus  had  never  before  been  quite  so  reverential 
and  ceremonious. 

"  Your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  may  read  them  at 
your  orders,  and  report  such  things  as  it  is  well  that 
you  should  know.  There  have  been  dark  tales  told 
and  there  may  be  darker  ones.  He  asked  that  you 
would  not  read  for  yourself.  If  you  meet  again  — 
when  you  meet  again  " —  he  corrected  himself  hastily 
— "  when  you  meet  again,  he  says  you  will  understand. 
368 


" EXTRA !     EXTRA !     EXTRA !  " 

I  am  your  servant.  I  will  read  and  answer  all  such 
questions  as  I  can." 

The  Rat  handed  him  the  paper  and  they  returned  to 
the  back  room  together. 

"  You  shall  tell  us  what  he  would  wish  us  to  hear," 
Marco  said. 

The  news  was  soon  told.  The  story  was  not  a  long 
one  as  exact  details  had  not  yet  reached  London.  It 
was  briefly  that  the  head  of  the  Maranovitch  party  had 
been  put  to  death  by  infuriated  soldiers  of  his  own 
army.  It  was  an  army  drawn  chiefly  from  a  peasantry 
which  did  not  love  its  leaders,  or  wish  to  fight,  and 
suffering  and  brutal  treatment  had  at  last  roused  it  to 
furious  revolt. 

"  What  next?  "  said  Marco. 

"  If  I  were  a  Samavian  —  "  began  The  Rat  and  then 
he  stopped. 

Lazarus  stood  biting  his  lips,  but  staring  stonily  at 
the  carpet.  Not  The  Rat  alone  but  Marco  also  noted 
a  grim  change  in  him.  It  was  grim  because  it  sug- 
gested that  he  was  holding  himself  under  an  iron  con- 
trol. It  was  as  if  while  tortured  by  anxiety  he  had 
sworn  not  to  allow  himself  to  look  anxious  and  the 
resolve  set  his  jaw  hard  and  carved  new  lines  in  his 
rugged  face.  Each  boy  thought  this  in  secret,  but  did 
not  wish  to  put  it  into  words.  If  he  was  anxious,  he 
could  only  be  so  for  one  reason,  and  each  realized  what 
the  reason  must  be.  Loristan  had  gone  to  Samavia  — 
to  the  torn  and  bleeding  country  filled  with  riot  and 
369 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

danger.  If  he  had  gone,  it  could  only  have  been  be- 
cause its  danger  called  him  and  he  went  to  face  it  at 
its  worst.  Lazarus  had  been  left  behind  to  watch  over 
them.  Silence  was  still  the  order,  and  what  he  knew 
he  could  not  tell  them,  and  perhaps  he  knew  little  more 
than  that  a  great  life  might  be  lost. 

Because  his  master  was  absent,  the  old  soldier 
seemed  to  feel  that  he  must  comfort  himself  with  a 
greater  ceremonial  reverence  than  he  had  ever  shown 
before.  He  held  himself  within  call,  and  at  Marco's 
orders,  as  it  had  been  his  custom  to  hold  himself  with 
regard  to  Loristan.  The  ceremonious  service  even  ex- 
tended itself  to  The  Rat,  who  appeared  to  have  taken 
a  new  place  in  his  mind.  He  also  seemed  now  to  be 
a  person  to  be  waited  upon  and  replied  to  with  dignity 
and  formal  respect. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  served,  Lazarus  drew 
out  Loristan's  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  stood 
behind  it  with  a  majestic  air. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  to  Marco,  "  the  Master  requested 
that  you  take  his  seat  at  the  table  until  —  while  he  is 
not  with  you." 

Marco  took  the  seat  in  silence. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  roaring 
road  was  still,  the  light  from  the  street  lamp,  shining 
into  the  small  bedroom,  fell  on  two  pale  boy  faces. 
The  Rat  sat  up  on  his  sofa  bed  in  the  old  way  with  his 
hands  clasped  round  his  knees.  Marco  lay  flat  on  his 
37o 


"  EXTRA !     EXTRA !     EXTRA !  " 

hard  pillow.  Neither  of  them  had  been  to  sleep  and 
yet  they  had  not  talked  a  great  deal.  Each  had  se- 
cretly guessed  a  good  deal  of  what  the  other  did  not 
say. 

"  There  is  one  thing  we  must  remember,"  Marco 
had  said,  early  in  the  night.  "  We  must  not  be 
afraid." 

"  No,"  answered  The  Rat,  almost  fiercely,  "  we 
must  not  be  afraid." 

"  We  are  tired ;  we  came  back  expecting  to  be  able 
to  tell  it  all  to  him.  We  have  always  been  looking  for- 
ward to  that.  We  never  thought  once  that  he  might 
be  gone.  And  he  was  gone.  Did  you  feel  as  if—" 
he  turned  towards  the  sofa,  "as  if  something  had 
struck  you  on  the  chest  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  The  Rat  answered  heavily.     "  Yes." 

"  We  were  n't  ready,"  said  Marco.  "  He  had  never 
gone  before;  but  we  ought  to  have  known  he  might 
some  day  be  —  called.  He  went  because  he  was 
called.  He  told  us  to  wait.  We  don't  know  what  we 
are  waiting  for,  but  we  know  that  we  must  not  be 
afraid.  To  let  ourselves  be  afraid  would  be  break- 
ing the  Law." 

"  The  Law ! "  groaned  The  Rat,  dropping  his  head 
on  his  hands,  "  I  'd  forgotten  about  it." 

"  Let  us  remember  it,"  said  Marco.     "  This  is  the 
time.     '  Hate    not.     Fear   not ! ' "     He    repeated   the 
last  words  again  and  again.     "  Fear  not !     Fear  not," 
he  said.     "  Nothing  can  harm  him." 
37i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  Rat  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  at  the  bed  side- 
ways. 

"  Did  you  think  — "  he  said  slowly  — "  did  you 
ever  think  that  perhaps  he  knew  where  the  descendant 
of  the  Lost  Prince  was?" 

Marco  answered  even  more  slowly. 

"If  any  one  knew  —  surely  he  might.  He  has 
known  so  much,"  he  said. 

"  Listen  to  this !  "  broke  forth  The  Rat,  "  I  believe 
he  has  gone  to  tell  the  people.  If  he  does  —  if  he 
could  show  them  —  all  the  country  would  run  mad 
with  joy.  It  would  n't  be  only  the  Secret  Party.  All 
Samavia  would  rise  and  follow  any  flag  he  chose 
to  raise.  They  've  prayed  for  the  Lost  Prince  for  five 
hundred  years,  and  if  they  believed  they'd  got  him 
once  more,  they'd  fight  like  madmen  for  him.  But 
there  would  not  be  any  one  to  fight.  They  'd  all  want 
the  same  thing!  If  they  could  see  the  man  with  Ivor's 
blood  in  his  veins,  they'd  feel  he  had  come  back  to 
them  —  risen  from  the  dead.     They  'd  believe  it !  " 

He  beat  his  fists  together  in  his  frenzy  of  excitement. 
"  It 's  the  time !  It 's  the  time !  "  he  cried.  "  No  man 
could  let  such  a  chance  go  by !  He  must  tell  them  — 
he  must!  That  must  be  what  he 's  gone  for.  He 
knows  —  he  knows  —  he  's  always  known !  "  And  he 
threw  himself  back  on  his  sofa  and  flung  his  arms  over 
his  face,  lying  there  panting. 

"If  it  is  the  time,"  said  Marco  in  a  low,  strained 
voice  — "  if  it  is,  and  he  knows  —  he  will  tell  them." 
372 


" EXTRA !     EXTRA !     EXTRA !  " 

And  he  threw  his  arms  up  over  his  own  face  and  lay- 
quite  still. 

Neither  of  them  said  another  word,  and  the  street 
lamp  shone  in  on  them  as  if  it  were  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  happen.  But  nothing  happened.  In  time 
they  were  asleep. 


373 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
'twixt  night  and  morning 

AFTER  this,  they  waited.  They  did  not  know 
what  they  waited  for,  nor  could  they  guess  even 
vaguely  how  the  waiting  would  end.  All  that  Lazarus 
could  tell  them  he  told.  He  would  have  been  willing 
to  stand  respectfully  for  hours  relating  to  Marco  the 
story  of  how  the  period  of  their  absence  had  passed  for 
his  Master  and  himself.  He  told  how  Loristan  had 
spoken  each  day  of  his  son,  how  he  had  often  been  pale 
with  anxiousness,  how  in  the  evenings  he  had  walked 
to  and  fro  in  his  room,  deep  in  thought,  as  he  looked 
down  unseeingly  at  the  carpet. 

"  He  permitted  me  to  talk  of  you,  sir,"  Lazarus  said. 
"  I  saw  that  he  wished  to  hear  your  name  often.  I 
reminded  him  of  the  times  when  you  had  been  so  young 
that  most  children  of  your  age  would  have  been  in  the 
hands  of  nurses,  and  yet  you  were  strong  and  silent  and 
sturdy  and  traveled  with  us  as  if  you  were  not  a  child 
at  all  —  never  crying  when  you  were  tired  and  were 
not  properly  fed.  As  if  you  understood  —  as  if  you 
understood,"  he  added,  proudly.  "  If,  through  the 
power  of  God  a  creature  can  be  a  man  at  six  years 
old,  you  were  that  one.  Many  a  dark  day  I  have 
374 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

looked  into  your  solemn,  watching  eyes,  and  have  been 
half  afraid;  because  that  a  child  should  answer  one's 
gaze  so  gravely  seemed  almost  an  unearthly  thing." 

"  The  chief  thing  I  remember  of  those  days,"  said 
Marco,  "  is  that  he  was  with  me,  and  that  whenever 
I  was  hungry  or  tired,  I  knew  he  must  be,  too." 

The  feeling  that  they  were  "  waiting  "  was  so  in- 
tense that  it  filled  the  days  with  strangeness.  When 
the  postman's  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  each  of 
them  endeavored  not  to  start.  A  letter  might  some 
day  come  which  would  tell  them  — ■  they  did  not  know 
what.  But  no  letters  came.  When  they  went  out  into 
the  streets,  they  found  themselves  hurrying  on  their 
way  back  in  spite  of  themselves.  Something  might 
have  happened.  Lazarus  read  the  papers  faithfully, 
and  in  the  evening  told  Marco  and  The  Rat  all  the 
news  it  was  "  well  that  they  should  hear."  But  the 
disorders  of  Samavia  had  ceased  to  occupy  much  space. 
They  had  become  an  old  story,  and  after  the  excite- 
ment of  the  assassination  of  Michael  Maranovitch  had 
died  out,  there  seemed  to  be  a  lull  in  events.  Michael's 
son  had  not  dared  to  try  to  take  his  father's  place,  and 
there  were  rumors  that  he  also  had  been  killed.  The 
head  of  the  Iarovitch  had  declared  himself  king  but 
had  not  been  crowned  because  of  disorders  in  his  own 
party.  The  country  seemed  existing  in  a  nightmare  of 
suffering,  famine  and  suspense. 

"  Samavia  is  '  waiting '  too,"  The  Rat  broke  forth 
one  night  as  they  talked  together,  "  but  it  won't  wait 
375 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

long  —  it    can't.     If    I    were    a    Samavian    and    in 
Samavia  — " 

"  My  father  is  a  Samavian  and  he  is  in  Samavia," 
Marco's  grave  young  voice  interposed.  The  Rat 
flushed  red  as  he  realized  what  he  had  said.  "  What  a 
fool  I  am!"  he  groaned.  "I  —  I  beg  your  pardon  — 
sir."  He  stood  up  when  he  said  the  last  words  and 
added  the  "  sir  "  as  if  he  suddenly  realized  that  there 
was  a  distance  between  them  which  was  something 
akin  to  the  distance  between  youth  and  maturity  — 
but  yet  was  not  the  same. 

"  You  are  a  good  Samavian  but  —  you  forget,"  was 
Marco's  answer. 

Lazarus'  intense  grimness  increased  with  each  day 
that  passed.  The  ceremonious  respectfulness  of  his 
manner  toward  Marco  increased  also.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  more  anxious  he  felt  the  more  formal  and  stately 
his  bearing  became.  It  was  as  though  he  braced  his 
own  courage  by  doing  the  smallest  things  life  in  the 
back  sitting-room  required  as  if  they  were  of  the  dig- 
nity of  services  performed  in  a  much  larger  place  and 
under  much  more  imposing  circumstances.  The  Rat 
found  himself  feeling  almost  as  if  he  were  an  equerry 
in  a  court,  and  that  dignity  and  ceremony  were  neces- 
sary on  his  own  part.  He  began  to  experience  a  sense 
of  being  somehow  a  person  of  rank,  for  whom  doors 
were  opened  grandly  and  who  had  vassals  at  his  com- 
mand. The  watchful  obedience  of  fifty  vassals  em- 
bodied itself  in  the  manner  of  Lazarus. 
376 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

"  I  am  glad,"  The  Rat  said  once,  reflectively,  "  that, 
after  all,  my  father  was  once  —  different.  It  makes 
it  easier  to  learn  things  perhaps.  If  he  had  not  talked 
to  me  about  people  who  —  well,  who  had  never  seen 
places  like  Bone  Court  —  this  might  have  been  harder 
for  me  to  understand." 

When  at  last  they  managed  to  call  The  Squad  to- 
gether, and  went  to  spend  a  morning  at  the  Barracks 
behind  the  churchyard,  that  body  of  armed  men  stared 
at  their  commander  in  great  and  amazed  uncertainty. 
They  felt  that  something  had  happened  to  him.  They 
did  not  know  what  had  happened,  but  it  was  some  ex- 
perience which  had  made  him  mysteriously  different. 
He  did  not  look  like  Marco,  but  in  some  extraordinary 
way  he  seemed  more  akin  to  him.  They  only  knew 
that  some  necessity  in  Loristan's  affairs  had  taken  the 
two  away  from  London  and  the  Game.  Now  they 
had  come  back,  and  they  seemed  older. 

At  first,  The  Squad  felt  awkward  and  shuffled  its 
feet  uncomfortably.  After  the  first  greetings  it  did 
not  know  exactly  what  to  say.  It  was  Marco  who 
saved  the  situation. 

"  Drill  us  first,"  he  said  to  The  Rat,  "  then  we  can 
talk  about  the  Game." 

"  'Tention ! "  shouted  The  Rat,  magnificently. 
And  then  they  forgot  everything  else  and  sprang  into 
line.  After  the  drill  was  ended,  and  they  sat  in  a 
circle  on  the  broken  flags,  the  Game  became  more  re- 
splendent than  it  had  ever  been. 
377 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  I  've  had  time  to  read  and  work  out  new  things," 
The  Rat  said.     "  Reading  is  like  traveling." 

Marco  himself  sat  and  listened,  enthralled  by  the 
adroitness  of  the  imagination  he  displayed.  Without 
revealing  a  single  dangerous  fact  he  built  up,  of  their 
journey ings  and  experiences,  a  totally  new  structure 
of  adventures  which  would  have  fired  the  whole  being 
of  any  group  of  lads.  It  was  safe  to  describe  places 
and  people,  and  he  so  described  them  that  The  Squad 
squirmed  in  its  delight  at  feeling  itself  marching  in  a 
procession  attending  the  Emperor  in  Vienna;  standing 
in  line  before  palaces;  climbing,  with  knapsacks 
strapped  tight,  up  precipitous  mountain  roads ;  defend- 
ing mountain- fortresses ;  and  storming  Samavian  cas- 
tles. 

The  Squad  glowed  and  exulted.  The  Rat  glowed 
and  exulted  himself.  Marco  watched  his  sharp- 
featured,  burning-eyed  face  with  wonder  and  ad- 
miration. This  strange  power  of  making  things 
alive  was,  he  knew,  what  his  father  would  call 
"  genius." 

"  Let 's  take  the  oath  of  'legiance  again,"  shouted 
Cad,  when  the  Game  was  over  for  the  morning. 

"  The  papers  never  said  nothin'  more  about  the  Lost 
Prince,  but  we  are  all  for  him  yet !  Let 's  take  it !  " 
So  they  stood  in  line  again,  Marco  at  the  head,  and 
renewed  their  oath. 

"  The  sword  in  my  hand  —  for  Samavia ! 

"  The  heart  in  my  breast  —  for  Samavia ! 
378 


TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

"  The  swiftness  of  my  sight,  the  thought  of  my 
brain,  the  life  of  my  life —  for  Samavia. 

"  Here  grow  twelve  men  —  for  Samavia. 

"God  be  thanked!" 

It  was  more  solemn  than  it  had  been  the  first  time. 
The  Squad  felt  it  tremendously.  Both  Cad  and  Ben 
were  conscious  that  thrills  ran  down  their  spines  into 
their  boots.  When  Marco  and  The  Rat  left  them,  they 
first  stood  at  salute  and  then  broke  out  into  a  ringing 
cheer. 

On  their  way  home,  The  Rat  asked  Marco  a  ques- 
tion. 

"  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Beedle  standing  at  the  top  of 
the  basement  steps  and  looking  after  us  when  we  went 
out  this  morning?" 

Mrs.  Beedle  was  the  landlady  of  the  lodgings  at  No. 
7  Philibert  Place.  She  was  a  mysterious  and  dusty 
female,  who  lived  in  the  "  cellar  kitchen  "  part  of  the 
house  and  was  seldom  seen  by  her  lodgers. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marco,  "  I  have  seen  her  two  or 
three  times  lately,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  her 
before.  My  father  has  never  seen  her,  though  Laza- 
rus says  she  used  to  watch  him  round  corners.  Why 
is  she  suddenly  so  curious  about  us?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  know,"  said  The  Rat.  "  I  've  been  try- 
ing to  work  it  out.  Ever  since  we  came  back,  she 's 
been  peeping  round  the  door  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  or 
over  balustrades,  or  through  the  cellar-kitchen  win- 
dows. I  believe  she  wants  to  speak  to  you,  and  knows 
379 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

Lazarus  won't  let  her  if  he  catches  her  at  it.  When 
Lazarus  is  about,  she  always  darts  back." 

"  What  does  she  want  to  say  ?  "  said  Marco. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know,"  said  The  Rat  again. 

When  they  reached  No.  7  Philibert  Place,  they 
found  out,  because  when  the  door  opened  they  saw 
at  the  top  of  cellar-kitchen  stairs  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  the  mysterious  Mrs.  Beedle,  in  her  dusty 
black  dress  and  with  a  dusty  black  cap  on,  evidently 
having  that  minute  mounted  from  her  subterranean 
hiding-place.  She  had  come  up  the  steps  so  quickly 
that  Lazarus  had  not  yet  seen  her. 

"  Young  Master  Loristan ! "  she  called  out  authori- 
tatively.    Lazarus  wheeled  about  fiercely. 

"  Silence !  "  he  commanded.  "  How  dare  you  ad- 
dress the  young  Master?" 

She  snapped  her  fingers  at  him,  and  marched  for- 
ward folding  her  arms  tightly.  "  You  mind  your 
own  business,"  she  said.  "  It 's  young  Master  Lori- 
stan I  'm  speaking  to,  not  his  servant.  It 's  time  he 
was  talked  to  about  this." 

"  Silence,  woman !  "  shouted  Lazarus. 

"  Let  her  speak,"  said  Marco.  "  I  want  to  hear. 
What  is  it  you  wish  to  say,  Madam?  My  father  is 
not  here." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  want  to  find  out  about,"  put 
in  the  woman.     "When  is  he  coming  back?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Marco. 

"That's  it,"  said  Mrs.  Beedle.  "You're  old 
380 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

enough  to  understand  that  two  big  lads  and  a  big  fel- 
low like  that  can't  have  food  and  lodgin's  for  nothing. 
You  may  say  you  don't  live  high  —  and  you  don't  — 
but  lodgin's  are  lodgin's  and  rent  is  rent.  If  your 
father 's  coming  back  and  you  can  tell  me  when,  I 
may  n't  be  obliged  to  let  the  rooms  over  your  heads ; 
but  I  know  too  much  about  foreigners  to  let  bills  run 
when  they  are  out  of  sight.  Your  father  's  out  of 
sight.  He,"  jerking  her  head  towards  Lazarus,  "  paid 
me  for  last  week.  How  do  I  know  he  will  pay  me 
for  this  week !  " 

"  The  money  is  ready,"  roared  Lazarus. 

The  Rat  longed  to  burst  forth.  He  knew  what 
people  in  Bone  Court  said  to  a  woman  like  that;  he 
knew  the  exact  words  and  phrases.  But  they  were 
not  words  and  phrases  an  aide-de-camp  might  deliver 
himself  of  in  the  presence  of  his  superior  officer;  they 
were  not  words  and  phrases  an  equerry  uses  at  court. 
He  dare  not  allow  himself  to  burst  forth.  He  stood 
with  flaming  eyes  and  a  flaming  face,  and  bit  his  lips 
till  they  bled.  He  wanted  to  strike  with  his  crutches. 
The  son  of  Stefan  Loristan!  The  Bearer  of  the 
Sign!  There  sprang  up  before  his  furious  eyes  the 
picture  of  the  luridly  lighted  cavern  and  the  frenzied 
crowd  of  men  kneeling  at  this  same  boy's  feet,  kissing 
them,  kissing  his  hands,  his  garments,  the  very  earth 
he  stood  upon,  worshipping  him,  while  above  the  altar 
the  kingly  young  face  looked  on  with  the  nimbus  of 
light  like  a  halo  above  it.  If  he  dared  speak  his  mind 
38i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

now,  he  felt  he  could  have  endured  it  better.     But 
being  an  aide-de-camp  he  could  not. 

"  Do  you  want  the  money  now  ? "  asked  Marco. 
"  It  is  only  the  beginning  of  the  week  and  we  do  not 
owe  it  to  you  until  the  week  is  over.  Is  it  that  you 
want  to  have  it  now  ?  " 

Lazarus  had  become  deadly  pale.  He  looked  huge 
in  his  fury,  and  he  looked  dangerous. 

"  Young  Master,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  voice  as 
deadly  as  his  pallor,  and  he  actually  spoke  low,  "  this 
woman  — " 

Mrs.  Beedle  drew  back  towards  the  cellar-kitchen 
steps. 

"  There  's  police  outside,"  she  shrilled.  "  Young 
Master  Loristan,  order  him  to  stand  back." 

"  No  one  will  hurt  you,"  said  Marco.  "  If  you 
have  the  money  here,  Lazarus,  please  give  it  to  me." 

Lazarus  literally  ground  his  teeth.  But  he  drew 
himself  up  and  saluted  with  ceremony.  He  put  his 
hand  in  his  breast  pocket  and  produced  an  old  leather 
wallet.  There  were  but  a  few  coins  in  it.  He 
pointed  to  a  gold  one. 

"  I  obey  you,  sir  —  since  I  must  — "  he  said,  breath- 
ing hard.     "  That  one  will  pay  her  for  the  week." 

Marco  took  out  the  sovereign  and  held  it  out  to  the 
woman. 

"  You  hear  what  he  says,"  he  said.  "  At  the  end 
of  this  week  if  there  is  not  money  enough  to  pay  for 
the  next,  we  will  go." 

382 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

Lazarus  looked  so  like  a  hyena,  only  held  back  from 
springing  by  chains  of  steel,  that  the  dusty  Mrs. 
Beedle  was  afraid  to  take  the  money. 

"If  you  say  that  I  shall  not  lose  it,  I  '11  wait  until 
the  week  's  ended,"  she  said.  "  You  're  nothing  but 
a  lad,  but  you  're  like  your  father.  You  've  got  a  way 
that  a  body  can  trust.  If  he  was  here  and  said  he 
had  n't  the  money  but  he  'd  have  it  in  time,  I  'd  wait 
if  it  was  for  a  month.  He  'd  pay  it  if  he  said  he 
would.  But  he's  gone;  and  two  boys  and  a  fellow 
like  that  one  don't  seem  much  to  depend  on.  But  I  '11 
trust  you." 

"  Be  good  enough  to  take  it,"  said  Marco.  And  he 
put  the  coin  in  her  hand  and  turned  into  the  back  sit- 
ting-room as  if  he  did  not  see  her. 

The  Rat  and  Lazarus  followed  him. 

"  Is  there  so  little  money  left  ?  "  said  Marco.  "  We 
have  always  had  very  little.  When  we  had  less  than 
usual,  we  lived  in  poorer  places  and  were  hungry  if 
it  was  necessary.  We  know  how  to  go  hungry.  One 
does  not  die  of  it." 

The  big  eyes  under  Lazarus'  beetling  brows  filled 
with  tears. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said,  "  one  does  not  die  of  hunger. 
But  the  insult  —  the  insult!     That  is  not  endurable." 

"  She  would  not  have  spoken  if  my  father  had  been 
here,"  Marco  said.  "  And  it  is  true  that  boys  like  us 
have  no  money.  Is  there  enough  to  pay  for  another 
week?  " 

383 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Lazarus,  swallowing  hard  as 
if  he  had  a  lump  in  his  throat,  "perhaps  enough  for 
two  —  if  we  eat  but  little.  If  —  if  the  Master  would 
accept  money  from  those  who  would  give  it,  he  would 
always  have  had  enough.  But  how  could  such  a  one 
as  he?  How  could  he?  When  he  went  away,  he 
thought  —  he  thought  that — "  but  there  he  stopped 
himself  suddenly. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Marco.  "  Never  mind.  We 
will  go  away  the  day  we  can  pay  no  more." 

"  I  can  go  out  and  sell  newspapers,"  said  The  Rat's 
sharp  voice.  "  I  've  done  it  before.  Crutches  help 
you  to  sell  them.  The  platform  would  sell  'em  faster 
still.     I  '11  go  out  on  the  platform." 

"  I  can  sell  newspapers,  too,"  said  Marco. 

Lazarus  uttered  an  exclamation  like  a  groan. 

"  Sir,"  he  cried,  "  no,  no !  Am  I  not  here  to  go 
out  and  look  for  work  ?  I  can  carry  loads.  I  can  run 
errands." 

"  We  will  all  three  begin  to  see  what  we  can  do," 
Marco  said. 

Then  —  exactly  as  had  happened  on  the  day  of  their 
return  from  their  journey  —  there  arose  in  the  road 
outside  the  sound  of  newsboys  shouting.  This  time 
the  outcry  seemed  even  more  excited  than  before. 
The  boys  were  running  and  yelling  and  there  seemed 
more  of  them  than  usual.  And  above  all  other  words 
was  heard  "  Samavia !  Samavia !  "  But  to-day  The 
Rat  did  not  rush  to  the  door  at  the  first  cry.  He  stood 
384 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

still  —  for  several  seconds  they  all  three  stood  still  — 
listening.  Afterwards  each  one  remembered  and  told 
the  others  that  he  had  stood  still  because  some  strange, 
strong  feeling  held  him  waiting  as  if  to  hear  some 
great  thing. 

It  was  Lazarus  who  went  out  of  the  room  first  and 
The  Rat  and  Marco  followed  him. 

One  of  the  upstairs  lodgers  had  run  down  in  haste 
and  opened  the  door  to  buy  newspapers  and  ask  ques- 
tions. The  newsboys  were  wild  with  excitement  and 
danced  about  as  they  shouted.  The  piece  of  news 
they  were  yelling  had  evidently  a  popular  quality. 

The  lodger  bought  two  papers  and  was  handing  out 
coppers  to  a  lad  who  was  talking  loud  and  fast. 

"  Here 's  a  go ! "  he  was  saying.  "  A  Secret 
Party's  risen  up  and  taken  Samavia!  'Twixt  night 
and  mornin'  they  done  it!  That  there  Lost  Prince 
descendant  'as  turned  up,  an'  they  've  crowned  him  — 
'twixt  night  and  mornin'  they  done  it!  Clapt  'is 
crown  on  'is  'ead,  so's  they'd  lose  no  time."  And 
off  he  bolted,  shouting,  "'Cendant  of  Lost  Prince! 
'Cendant  of  Lost  Prince  made  King  of  Samavia !  " 

It  was  then  that  Lazarus,  forgetting  even  ceremony, 
bolted  also.  He  bolted  back  to  the  sitting-room, 
rushed  in,  and  the  door  fell  to  behind  him. 

Marco  and  The  Rat  found  it  shut  when,  having 

secured  a  newspaper,  they  went  down  the  passage.     At 

the  closed  door,  Marco  stopped.     He  did  not  turn  the 

handle.     From  the  inside  of  the  room  there  came  the 

385 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

sound  of  big  convulsive  sobs  and  passionate  Samavian 
words  of  prayer  and  worshipping  gratitude. 

"  Let  us  wait,"  Marco  said,  trembling  a  little.  "  He 
will  not  want  any  one  to  see  him.     Let  us  wait." 

His  black  pits  of  eyes  looked  immense,  and  he  stood 
at  his  tallest,  but  he  was  trembling  slightly  from  head 
to  foot.  The  Rat  had  begun  to  shake,  as  if  from  an 
ague.  His  face  was  scarcely  human  in  its  fierce  un- 
boyish  emotion. 

"  Marco !  Marco ! "  his  whisper  was  a  cry. 
"  That  was  what  he  went  for  —  because  he  knew! " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marco,  "  that  was  what  he  went 
for."     And  his  voice  was  unsteady,  as  his  body  was. 

Presently  the  sobs  inside  the  room  choked  them- 
selves back  suddenly.  Lazarus  had  remembered. 
They  had  guessed  he  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall 
during  his  outburst.  Now  it  was  evident  that  he  stood 
upright,  probably  shocked  at  the  forgetfulness  of  his 
frenzy. 

So  Marco  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and  went 
into  the  room.  He  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and 
they  all  three  stood  together. 

When  the  Samavian  gives  way  to  his  emotions,  he 
is  emotional  indeed.  Lazarus  looked  as  if  a  storm 
had  swept  over  him.  He  had  choked  back  his  sobs, 
but  tears  still  swept  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  your  pardon !  It  was  as 
if  a  convulsion  seized  me.  I  forgot  everything  — 
even  my  duty.  Pardon,  pardon!  "  And  there  on  the 
386 


'TWIXT  NIGHT  AND  MORNING 

worn  carpet  of  the  dingy  back  sitting-room  in  the 
Marylebone  Road,  he  actually  went  on  one  knee  and 
kissed  the  boy's  hand  with  adoration. 

"  You  must  n't  ask  pardon,"  said  Marco.  "  You 
have  waited  so  long,  good  friend.  You  have  given 
your  life  as  my  father  has.  You  have  known  all  the 
suffering  a  boy  has  not  lived  long  enough  to  under- 
stand. Your  big  heart  —  your  faithful  heart — "  his 
voice  broke  and  he  stood  and  looked  at  him  with  an 
appeal  which  seemed  to  ask  him  to  remember  his  boy- 
hood and  understand  the  rest. 

"  Don't  kneel,"  he  said  next.  "  You  must  n't  kneel." 
And  Lazarus,  kissing  his  hand  again,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Now  —  we  shall  hear!  "  said  Marco.  "  Now  the 
waiting  will  soon  be  over." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Now,  we  shall  receive  commands ! " 
Lazarus  answered. 

The  Rat  held  out  the  newspapers. 

"  May  we  read  them  yet  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Until  further  orders,  sir,"  said  Lazarus  hurriedly 
and  apologetically  — "  until  further  orders,  it  is  still 
better  that  I  should  read  them  first." 


387 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  GAME  IS   AT   AN    END 

SO  long  as  the  history  of  Europe  is  written  and 
read,  the  unparalleled  story  of  the  Rising  of  the 
Secret  Party  in  Samavia  will  stand  out  as  one  of  its 
most  startling  and  romantic  records.  Every  detail 
connected  with  the  astonishing  episode,  from  beginning 
to  end,  was  romantic  even  when  it  was  most  produc- 
tive of  realistic  results.  When  it  is  related,  it  always 
begins  with  the  story  of  the  tall  and  kingly  Samavian 
youth  who  walked  out  of  the  palace  in  the  early  morn- 
ing sunshine  singing  the  herdsmen's  song  of  the  beauty 
of  old  days.  Then  comes  the  outbreak  of  the  ruined 
and  revolting  populace;  then  the  legend  of  the  morn- 
ing on  the  mountain  side,  and  the  old  shepherd  com- 
ing out  of  his  cave  and  finding  the  apparently  dead 
body  of  the  beautiful  young  hunter.  Then  the  secret 
nursing  in  the  cavern;  then  the  jolting  cart  piled  with 
sheepskins  crossing  the  frontier,  and  ending  its  jour- 
ney at  the  barred  entrance  of  the  monastery  and  leav- 
ing its  mysterious  burden  behind.  And  then  the  bitter 
hate  and  struggle  of  dynasties,  and  the  handful  of 
shepherds  and  herdsmen  meeting  in  their  cavern  and 
binding  themselves  and  their  unborn  sons  and  sons' 


THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 

sons  by  an  oath  never  to  be  broken.  Then  the  passing 
of  generations  and  the  slaughter  of  peoples  and  the 
changing  of  kings, —  and  always  that  oath  remem- 
bered, and  the  Forgers  of  the  Sword,  at  their  secret 
work,  hidden  in  forests  and  caves.  Then  the  strange 
story  of  the  uncrowned  kings  who,  wandering  in  other 
lands,  lived  and  died  in  silence  and  seclusion,  often 
laboring  with  their  hands  for  their  daily  bread,  but 
never  forgetting  that  they  must  be  kings,  and  ready, — 
even  though  Samavia  never  called.  Perhaps  the 
whole  story  would  fill  too  many  volumes  to  admit  of 
its  ever  being  told  fully.  But  history  makes  the  grow- 
ing of  the  Secret  Party  clear, —  though  it  seems  almost 
to  cease  to  be  history,  in  spite  of  its  efforts  to  be  brief 
and  speak  only  of  dull  facts,  when  it  is  forced  to  deal 
with  the  Bearing  of  the  Sign  by  two  mere  boys,  who, 
being  blown  as  unremarked  as  any  two  grains  of  dust 
across  Europe,  lit  the  Lamp  whose  flame  so  flared  up 
to  the  high  heavens  that  as  if  from  the  earth  itself 
there  sprang  forth  Samavians  by  the  thousand  thou- 
sand ready  to  feed  it  —  Iarovitch  and  Maranovitch 
swept  aside  forever  and  only  Samavians  remaining  to 
cry  aloud  in  ardent  praise  and  worship  of  the  God  who 
had  brought  back  to  them  their  Lost  Prince.  The 
battle-cry  of  his  name  had  ended  every  battle.  Swords 
fell  from  hands  because  swords  were  not  needed. 
The  Iarovitch  fled  in  terror  and  dismay;  the  Marano- 
vitch were  nowhere  to  be  found.  Between  night  and 
morning,  as  the  newsboy  had  said,  the  standard  of  Ivor 
389 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

was  raised  and  waved  from  palace  and  citadel  alike. 
From  mountain,  forest  and  plain,  from  city,  village 
and  town,  its  followers  flocked  to  swear  allegiance; 
broken  and  wounded  legions  staggered  along  the  roads 
to  join  and  kneel  to  it;  women  and  children  followed, 
weeping  with  joy  and  chanting  songs  of  praise.  The 
Powers  held  out  their  scepters  to  the  lately  prostrate 
and  ignored  country.  Train-loads  of  food  and  sup- 
plies of  all  things  needed  began  to  cross  the  frontier; 
the  aid  of  the  nations  was  bestowed.  Samavia,  at 
peace  to  till  its  land,  to  raise  its  flocks,  to  mine  its  ores, 
would  be  able  to  pay  all  back.  Samavia  in  past  cen- 
turies had  been  rich  enough  to  make  great  loans,  and 
had  stored  such  harvests  as  warring  countries  had  been 
glad  to  call  upon.  The  story  of  the  crowning  of  the 
King  had  been  the  wildest  of  all  —  the  multitude  of 
ecstatic  people,  famished,  in  rags,  and  many  of  them 
weak  with  wounds,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  praying,  as 
their  one  salvation  and  security,  that  he  would  go  at- 
tended by  them  to  their  bombarded  and  broken 
cathedral,  and  at  its  high  altar  let  the  crown  be  placed 
upon  his  head,  so  that  even  those  who  perhaps  must 
die  of  their  past  sufferings  would  at  least  have  paid 
their  poor  homage  to  the  King  Ivor  who  would  rule 
their  children  and  bring  back  to  Samavia  her  honor 
and  her  peace. 

"Ivor!  Ivor!"  they  chanted  like  a  prayer, — 
"  Ivor !  Ivor !  "  in  their  houses,  by  the  roadside,  in 
the  streets. 

390 


THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 

"  The  story  of  the  Coronation  in  the  shattered 
Cathedral,  whose  roof  had  been  torn  to  fragments  by 
bombs,"  said  an  important  London  paper,  "  reads  like 
a  legend  of  the  Middle  Ages.  But,  upon  the  whole, 
there  is  in  Samavia's  national  character,  something  of 
the  mediaeval,  still." 

Lazarus,  having  bought  and  read  in  his  top  floor 
room  every  newspaper  recording  the  details,  which  had 
reached  London,  returned  to  report  almost  verbatim, 
standing  erect  before  Marco,  the  eyes  under  his  shaggy 
brows  sometimes  flaming  with  exultation,  sometimes 
filled  with  a  rush  of  tears.  He  could  not  be  made  to 
sit  down.  His  whole  big  body  seemed  to  have  become 
rigid  with  magnificence.  Meeting  Mrs.  Beedle  in  the 
passage,  he  strode  by  her  with  an  air  so  thunderous 
that  she  turned  and  scuttled  back  to  her  cellar  kitchen, 
almost  falling  down  the  stone  steps  in  her  nervous 
terror.  In  such  a  mood,  he  was  not  a  person  to  face 
without  something  like  awe. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  The  Rat  suddenly  spoke 
to  Marco  as  if  he  knew  that  he  was  awake  and  would 
hear  him. 

"He  has  given  all  his  life  to  Samavia!"  he  said. 
"  When  you  traveled  from  country  to  country,  and 
lived  in  holes  and  corners,  it  was  because  by  doing  it  he 
could  escape  spies,  and  see  the  people  who  must  be  made 
to  understand.  No  one  else  could  have  made  them  lis- 
ten. An  emperor  would  have  begun  to  listen  when 
39i 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

he  had  seen  his  face  and  heard  his  voice.  And  he 
could  be  silent,  and  wait  for  the  right  time  to  speak. 
He  could  keep  still  when  other  men  could  not.  He 
could  keep  his  face  still  —  and  his  hands  —  and  his 
eyes.  Now  all  Samavia  knows  what  he  has  done, 
and  that  he  has  been  the  greatest  patriot  in  the  world. 
We  both  saw  what  Samavians  were  like  that  night 
in  the  cavern.  They  will  go  mad  with  joy  when  they 
see  his  face !  " 

"  They  have  seen  it  now,"  said  Marco,  in  a  low 
voice  from  his  bed. 

Then  there  was  a  long  silence,  though  it  was  not 
quite  silence  because  The  Rat's  breathing  was  so  quick 
and  hard. 

"He  —  must  have  been  at  that  coronation!"  he 
said  at  last.  "  The  King  —  what  will  the  King  do 
to  —  repay  him  ?  " 

Marco  did  not  answer.  His  breathing  could  be 
heard  also.  His  mind  was  picturing  that  same  coro- 
nation—  the  shattered,  roofless  cathedral,  the  ruins 
of  the  ancient  and  magnificent  high  altar,  the  multi- 
tude of  kneeling,  famine-scourged  people,  the  battle- 
worn,  wounded  and  bandaged  soldiery!  And  the 
King !  And  his  father !  Where  had  his  father  stood 
when  the  King  was  crowned?  Surely,  he  had  stood 
at  the  King's  right  hand,  and  the  people  had  adored 
and  acclaimed  them  equally ! 

"King  Ivor!"  he  murmured  as  if  he  were  in  a 
dream.     "King  Ivor!" 

392 


THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 

The  Rat  started  up  on  his  elbow. 

"  You  will  see  him,"  he  cried  out.  "  He  's  not  a 
dream  any  longer.  The  Game  is  not  a  game  now  — 
and  it  is  ended  —  it  is  won !  It  was  real  —  he  was 
real !     Marco,  I  don't  believe  you  hear." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Marco,  "  but  it  is  almost 
more  a  dream  than  when  it  was  one." 

"  The  greatest  patriot  in  the  world  is  like  a  king 
himself!"  raved  The  Rat.  "If  there  is  no  bigger 
honor  to  give  him,  he  will  be  made  a  prince  —  and 
Commander-in-Chief  —  and  Prime  Minister!  Can't 
you  hear  those  Samavians  shouting,  and  singing,  and 
praying?  You'll  see  it  all!  Do  you  remember  the 
mountain  climber  who  was  going  to  save  the  shoes 
he  made  for  the  Bearer  of  the  Sign?  He  said  a 
great  day  might  come  when  he  could  show  them  to 
the  people.  It 's  come !  He  '11  show  them !  I  know 
how  they  '11  take  it !  "  His  voice  suddenly  dropped  — 
as  if  it  dropped  into  a  pit.  "  You  '11  see  it  all.  But 
I  shall  not." 

Then  Marco  awoke  from  his  dream  and  lifted  his 
head.  "  Why  not  ?  "  he  demanded.  It  sounded  like 
a  demand. 

"  Because  I  know  better  than  to  expect  it ! "  The 
Rat  groaned.  "  You  've  taken  me  a  long  way,  but 
you  can't  take  me  to  the  palace  of  a  king.  I  'm  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  think  that,  even  of  your  father  — " 

He  broke  off  because  Marco  did  more  than  lift  his 
head.     He  sat  upright. 

393 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  You  bore  the  Sign  as  much  as  I  did,"  he  said. 
"  We  bore  it  together." 

"  Who  would  have  listened  to  me?"  cried  The  Rat. 
"  You  were  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan." 

"  You  were  the  friend  of  his  son,"  answered  Marco. 
"■  You  went  at  the  command  of  Stefan  Loristan. 
You  were  the  army  of  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan. 
That  I  have  told  you.  Where  I  go,  you  will  go.  We 
will  say  no  more  of  this  —  not  one  word." 

And  he  lay  down  again  in  the  silence  of  a  prince 
of  the  blood.  And  The  Rat  knew  that  he  meant  what 
he  said,  and  that  Stefan  Loristan  also  would  mean 
it.  And  because  he  was  a  boy,  he  began  to  wonder 
what  Mrs.  Beedle  would  do  when  she  heard  what  had 
happened  —  what  had  been  happening  all  the  time 
a  tall,  shabby  "  foreigner "  had  lived  in  her  dingy 
back  sitting-room,  and  been  closely  watched  lest  he 
should  go  away  without  paying  his  rent,  as  shabby 
foreigners  sometimes  did.  The  Rat  saw  himself 
managing  to  poise  himself  very  erect  on  his  crutches 
while  he  told  her  that  the  shabby  foreigner  was  — 
well,  was  at  least  the  friend  of  a  King,  and  had  given 
him  his  crown  —  and  would  be  made  a  prince  and  a 
Commander-in-Chief  —  and  a  Prime  Minister  —  be- 
cause there  was  no  higher  rank  or  honor  to  give  him. 
And  his  son  —  whom  she  had  insulted  —  was  Sama- 
via's  idol  because  he  had  borne  the  Sign.  And  also 
that  if  she  were  in  Samavia,  and  Marco  chose  to  do 
it  he  could  batter  her  wretched  lodging-house  to  the 
394 


THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 

ground  and  put  her  in  a  prison  — "  and  serve  her  jolly 
well  right !  " 

The  next  day  passed,  and  the  next;  and  then  there 
came  a  letter.  It  was  from  Loristan,  and  Marco 
turned  pale  when  Lazarus  handed  it  to  him.  Laza- 
rus and  The  Rat  went  out  of  the  room  at  once,  and 
left  him  to  read  it  alone.  It  was  evidently  not  a  long 
letter,  because  it  was  not  many  minutes  before  Marco 
called  them  again  into  the  room. 

"  In  a  few  days,  messengers  —  friends  of  my  fa- 
ther's—  will  come  to  take  us  to  Samavia.  You  and 
I  and  Lazarus  are  to  go,"  he  said  to  The  Rat. 

"  God  be  thanked ! "  said  Lazarus.  "  God  be 
thanked ! " 

Before  the  messengers  came,  it  was  the  end  of  the 
week.  Lazarus  had  packed  their  few  belongings,  and 
on  Saturday  Mrs.  Beedle  was  to  be  seen  hovering  at 
the  top  of  the  cellar  steps,  when  Marco  and  The  Rat 
left  the  back  sitting-room  to  go  out. 

"  You  need  n't  glare  at  me !  "  she  said  to  Lazarus, 
who  stood  glowering  at  the  door  which  he  had  opened 
for  them.  "  Young  Master  Loristan,  I  want  to  know 
if  you  've  heard  when  your  father  is  coming 
back?  " 

"  He  will  not  come  back,"  said  Marco. 

"  He    won't,    won't    he  ?     Well,    how    about    next 

week's  rent?"  said  Mrs.  Beedle.     "Your  man's  been 

packing  up,  I  notice.     He 's  not  got  much  to  carry 

away,  but  it  won't  pass  through  that  front  door  until 

395 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

I  've  got  what 's  owing  me.  People  that  can  pack 
easy  think  they  can  get  away  easy,  and  they  '11  bear 
watching.     The  week  's  up  to-day." 

Lazarus  wheeled  and  faced  her  with  a  furious  ges- 
ture. "  Get  back  to  your  cellar,  woman,"  he  com- 
manded. "  Get  back  under  ground  and  stay  there. 
Look  at  what  is  stopping  before  your  miserable  gate." 

A  carriage  was  stopping  —  a  very  perfect  carriage 
of  dark  brown.  The  coachman  and  footman  wore 
dark  brown  and  gold  liveries,  and  the  footman  had 
leaped  down  and  opened  the  door  with  respectful 
alacrity.  "  They  are  friends  of  the  Master's  come  to 
pay  their  respects  to  his  son,"  said  Lazarus.  "  Are 
their  eyes  to  be  offended  by  the  sight  of  you?  " 

"  Your  money  is  safe,"  said  Marco.  "  You  had 
better  leave  us." 

Mrs.  Beedle  gave  a  sharp  glance  at  the  two  gentle- 
men who  had  entered  the  broken  gate.  They  were 
of  an  order  which  did  not  belong  to  Philibert  Place. 
They  looked  as  if  the  carriage  and  the  dark  brown 
and  gold  liveries  were  every-day  affairs  to  them. 

"  At  all  events,  they  're  two  grown  men,  and  not 
two  boys  without  a  penny,"  she  said.  "If  they're 
your  father's  friends,  they  '11  tell  me  whether  my 
rent 's  safe  or  not." 

The  two  visitors  were  upon  the  threshold.     They 

were  both  men  of  a  certain  self-contained  dignity  of 

type;  and  when  Lazarus  opened  wide  the  door,  they 

stepped  into  the  shabby  entrance  hall  as  if  they  did 

396 


THE  GAME  IS  AT  AN  END 

not  see  it.  They  looked  past  its  dinginess,  and  past 
Lazarus,  and  The  Rat,  and  Mrs.  Beedle  —  through 
them,  as  it  were, —  at  Marco. 

He  advanced  towards  them  at  once. 

"  You  come  from  my  father ! "  he  said,  and  gave 
his  hand  first  to  the  elder  man,  then  to  the  younger. 

"  Yes,  we  come  from  your  father.  I  am  Baron 
Rastka  —  this  is  the  Count  Vorversk,"  said  the  elder 
man,  bowing. 

"  If  they  're  barons  and  counts,  and  friends  of  your 
father's,  they  are  well-to-do  enough  to  be  responsible 
for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Beedle,  rather  fiercely,  because 
she  was  somewhat  over-awed  and  resented  the  fact. 
"  It 's  a  matter  of  next  week's  rent,  gentlemen.  I 
want  to  know  where  it 's  coming  from." 

The  elder  man  looked  at  her  with  a  swift  cold 
glance.  He  did  not  speak  to  her,  but  to  Lazarus. 
"  What  is  she  doing  here  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Marco  answered  him.  "  She  is  afraid  we  cannot 
pay  our  rent,"  he  said.  "  It  is  of  great  importance  to 
her  that  she  should  be  sure." 

"  Take  her  away,"  said  the  gentleman  to  Lazarus. 
He  did  not  even  glance  at  her.  He  drew  something 
from  his  coat-pocket  and  handed  it  to  the  old  soldier. 
"Take  her  away,"  he  repeated.  And  because  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  not  any  longer  a  person  at  all, 
Mrs.  Beedle  actually  shuffled  down  the  passage  to  the 
cellar-kitchen  steps. 

Lazarus  did  not  leave  her  until  he,  too,  had  de- 
397 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

scended  into  the  cellar  kitchen,  where  he  stood  and 
lowered  above  her  like  an  infuriated  giant. 

"  To-morrow  he  will  be  on  his  way  to  Samavia, 
miserable  woman!"  he  said,  "Before  he  goes,  it 
would  be  well  for  you  to  implore  his  pardon." 

But  Mrs.  Beedle's  point  of  view  was  not  his.  She 
had  recovered  some  of  her  breath. 

"  I  don't  know  where  Samavia  is,"  she  raged,  as 
she  struggled  to  set  her  dusty,  black  cap  straight. 
"  I  '11  warrant  it 's  one  of  these  little  foreign  countries 
you  can  scarcely  see  on  the  map  —  and  not  a  decent 
English  town  in  it!  He  can  go  as  soon  as  he  likes, 
so  long  as  he  pays  his  rent  before  he  does  it.  Sama- 
via, indeed!  You  talk  as  if  he  was  Buckingham  Pal- 
ace ! " 


398 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"  THE   SON    OF   STEFAN    LORISTAN  " 

WHEN  a  party  composed  of  two  boys  attended 
by  a  big  soldierly  man-servant  and  accom- 
panied by  two  distinguished-looking,  elderly  men,  of 
a  marked  foreign  type,  appeared  on  the  platform  of 
Charing  Cross  Station  they  attracted  a  good  deal  of 
attention.  In  fact,  the  good  looks  and  strong,  well- 
carried  body  of  the  handsome  lad  with  the  thick  black 
hair  would  have  caused  eyes  to  turn  towards  him  even 
if  he  had  not  seemed  to  be  regarded  as  so  special  a 
charge  by  those  who  were  with  him.  But  in  a  coun- 
try where  people  are  accustomed  to  seeing  a  certain 
manner  and  certain  forms  observed  in  the  case  of  per- 
sons —  however  young  —  who  are  set  apart  by  the 
fortune  of  rank  and  distinction,  and  where  the  popu- 
lace also  rather  enjoys  the  sight  of  such  demeanor,  it 
was  inevitable  that  more  than  one  quick-sighted 
looker-on  should  comment  on  the  fact  that  this  was 
not  an  ordinary  group  of  individuals. 

"  See  that  fine,  big  lad  over  there ! "  said  a  work- 
man, whose  head,  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth,  stuck  out 
of  a  third-class  smoking  carriage  window.  "  He 's 
some  sort  of  a  young  swell,  I  '11  lay  a  shillin' !  Take 
a  look  at  him,"  to  his  mate  inside. 
399 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

The  mate  took  a  look.  The  pair  were  of  the  de- 
cent, polytechnic-educated  type,  and  were  shrewd  at 
observation. 

"  Yes,  he  's  some  sort  of  young  swell,"  he  summed 
him  up.  "  But  he  's  not  English  by  a  long  chalk.  He 
must  be  a  young  Turk,  or  Russian,  sent  over  to  be  edu- 
cated. His  suite  looks  like  it.  All  but  the  ferret- 
faced  chap  on  crutches.     Wonder  what  he  is ! " 

A  good-natured  looking  guard  was  passing,  and  the 
first  man  hailed  him. 

"  Have  we  got  any  swells  traveling  with  us  this 
morning?"  he  asked,  jerking  his  head  towards  the 
group.  "  That  looks  like  it.  Any  one  leaving  Wind- 
sor or  Sandringham  to  cross  from  Dover  to-day  ?  " 

The  man  looked  at  the  group  curiously  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  shook  his  head. 

"  They  do  look  like  something  or  other,"  he  an- 
swered, "  but  no  one  knows  anything  about  them. 
Everybody 's  safe  in  Buckingham  Palace  and  Marl- 
borough House  this  week.  No  one  either  going  or 
coming." 

No  observer,  it  is  true,  could  have  mistaKen  Laz- 
arus for  an  ordinary  attendant  escorting  an  ordinary 
charge.  If  silence  had  not  still  been  strictly  the  order, 
he  could  not  have  restrained  himself.  As  it  was,  he 
bore  himself  like  a  grenadier,  and  stood  by  Marco  as 
if  across  his  dead  body  alone  could  any  one  approach 
the  lad. 

"  Until  we  reach  Melzarr,"  he  had  said  with  pas- 
400 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

sion  to  the  two  gentlemen, — "until  I  can  stand  before 
my  Master  and  behold  him  embrace  his  son  —  behold 
him  —  I  implore  that  I  may  not  lose  sight  of  him 
night  or  day.  On  my  knees,  I  implore  that  I  may 
travel,  armed,  at  his  side.  I  am  but  his  servant,  and 
have  no  right  to  occupy  a  place  in  the  same  carriage. 
But  put  me  anywhere.  I  will  be  deaf,  dumb,  blind 
to  all  but  himself.  Only  permit  me  to  be  near  enough 
to  give  my  life  if  it  is  needed.  Let  me  say  to  my 
Master,  '  I  never  left  him.'  " 

"  We  will  find  a  place  for  you,"  the  elder  man  said, 
"  and  if  you  are  so  anxious,  you  may  sleep  across  his 
threshold  when  we  spend  the  night  at  a  hotel." 

"  I  will  not  sleep !  "  said  Lazarus.  "  I  will  watch. 
Suppose  there  should  be  demons  of  Maranovitch  loose 
and  infuriated  in  Europe?     Who  knows!" 

"  The  Maranovitch  and  Iarovitch  who  have  not  al- 
ready sworn  allegiance  to  King  Ivor  are  dead  on  bat- 
tlefields. The  remainder  are  now  Fedorovitch  and 
praising  God  for  their  King,"  was  the  answer  Baron 
Rastka  made  him. 

But  Lazarus  kept  his  guard  unbroken.  When  he 
occupied  the  next  compartment  to  the  one  in  which 
Marco  traveled,  he  stood  in  the  corridor  throughout 
the  journey.  When  they  descended  at  any  point  to 
change  trains,  he  followed  close  at  the  boy's  heels, 
his  fierce  eyes  on  every  side  at  once  and  his  hand  on 
the  weapon  hidden  in  his  broad  leather  belt.  When 
they  stopped  to  rest  in  some  city,  he  planted  himself 
401 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

in  a  chair  by  the  bedroom  door  of  his  charge,  and  if 
he  slept  he  was  not  aware  that  nature  had  betrayed 
him  into  doing  so. 

If  the  journey  made  by  the  young  Bearers  of  the 
Sign  had  been  a  strange  one,  this  was  strange  by  its 
very  contrast.  Throughout  that  pilgrimage,  two 
uncared-for  waifs  in  worn  clothes  had  traveled  from 
one  place  to  another,  sometimes  in  third-  or  fourth- 
class  continental  railroad  carriages,  sometimes  in  jolt- 
ing diligences,  sometimes  in  peasants'  carts,  sometimes 
on  foot  by  side  roads  and  mountain  paths,  and  forest 
ways.  Now,  two  well-dressed  boys  in  the  charge  of 
two  men  of  the  class  whose  orders  are  obeyed,  jour- 
neyed in  compartments  reserved  for  them,  their  trav- 
eling appurtenances  supplying  every  comfort  that 
luxury  could  provide. 

The  Rat  had  not  known  that  there  were  people  who 
traveled  in  such  a  manner ;  that  wants  could  be  so  per- 
fectly foreseen;  that  railroad  officials,  porters  at  sta- 
tions, the  staff  of  restaurants,  could  be  by  magic  trans- 
formed into  active  and  eager  servants.  To  lean 
against  the  upholstered  back  of  a  railway  carriage  and 
in  luxurious  ease  look  through  the  window  at  passing 
beauties,  and  then  to  find  books  at  your  elbow  and 
excellent  meals  appearing  at  regular  hours,  these  un- 
known perfections  made  it  necessary  for  him  at  times 
to  pull  himself  together  and  give  all  his  energies  to 
believing  that  he  was  quite  awake.  Awake  he  was, 
and  with  much  on  his  mind  to  "  work  out," —  so  much, 
402 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

indeed,  that  on  the  first  day  of  the  journey  he  had 
decided  to  give  up  the  struggle,  and  wait  until  fate 
made  clear  to  him  such  things  as  he  was  to  be  allowed 
to  understand  of  the  mystery  of  Stefan  Lor- 
istan. 

What  he  realized  most  clearly  was  that  the  fact  that 
the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan  was  being  escorted  in  pri- 
vate state  to  the  country  his  father  had  given  his  life's 
work  to,  was  never  for  a  moment  forgotten.  The 
Baron  Rastka  and  Count  Vorversk  were  of  the  dig- 
nity and  courteous  reserve  which  marks  men  of  dis- 
tinction. Marco  was  not  a  mere  boy  to  them,  he  was 
the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan;  and  they  were  Sama- 
vians.  They  watched  over  him,  not  as  Lazarus  did, 
but  with  a  gravity  and  forethought  which  somehow 
seemed  to  encircle  him  with  a  rampart.  Without  any 
air  of  subservience,  they  constituted  themselves  his 
attendants.  His  comfort,  his  pleasure,  even  his  en- 
tertainment, were  their  private  care.  The  Rat  felt 
sure  they  intended  that,  if  possible,  he  should  enjoy 
his  journey,  and  that  he  should  not  be  fatigued  by  it. 
They  conversed  with  him  as  The  Rat  had  not  known 
that  men  ever  conversed  with  boys, —  until  he  had  met 
Loristan.  It  was  plain  that  they  knew  what  he  would 
be  most  interested  in,  and  that  they  were  aware  he  was 
as  familiar  with  the  history  of  Samavia  as  they  were 
themselves.  When  he  showed  a  disposition  to  hear 
of  events  which  had  occurred,  they  were  as  prompt  to 
follow  his  lead  as  they  would  have  been  to  follow  the 
403 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

lead  of  a  man.  That,  The  Rat  argued  with  himself, 
was  because  Marco  had  lived  so  intimately  with  his 
father  that  his  life  had  been  more  like  a  man's  than  a 
boy's  and  had  trained  him  in  mature  thinking.  He 
was  very  quiet  during  the  journey,  and  The  Rat  knew 
he  was  thinking  all  the  time. 

The  night  before  they  reached  Melzarr,  they  slept 
at  a  town  some  hours  distant  from  the  capital.  They 
arrived  at  midnight  and  went  to  a  quiet  hotel. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Marco,  when  The  Rat  had  left 
him  for  the  night,  "  to-morrow,  we  shall  see  him ! 
God  be  thanked !  " 

"  God  be  thanked!  "  said  The  Rat,  also.  And  each 
saluted  the  other  before  they  parted. 

In  the  morning,  Lazarus  came  into  the  bedroom 
with  an  air  so  solemn  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  garments 
he  carried  in  his  hands  were  part  of  some  religious 
ceremony. 

"  I  am  at  your  command,  sir,"  he  said.  "  And  I 
bring  you  your  uniform." 

He  carried,  in  fact,  a  richly  decorated  Samavian 
uniform,  and  the  first  thing  Marco  had  seen  when  he 
entered  was  that  Lazarus  himself  was  in  uniform  also. 
His  was  the  uniform  of  an  officer  of  the  King's  Body 
Guard. 

"  The  Master,"  he  said,  "  asks  that  you  wear  this 
on  your  entrance  to  Melzarr.  I  have  a  uniform,  also, 
for  your  Aide-de-camp." 

When  Rastka  and  Vorversk  appeared,  they  were  in 
404 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

uniform  also.  It  was  a  uniform  which  had  a  touch 
of  the  Orient  in  its  picturesque  splendor.  A  short 
fur-bordered  mantle  hung  by  a  jeweled  chain  from 
the  shoulders,  and  there  was  much  magnificent  em- 
broidery of  color  and  gold. 

"  Sir,  we  must  drive  quickly  to  the  station,"  Baron 
Rastka  said  to  Marco.  "  These  people  are  excitable 
and  patriotic,  and  His  Majesty  wishes  us  to  remain 
incognito,  and  avoid  all  chance  of  public  demonstra- 
tion until  we  reach  the  capital."  They  passed  rather 
hurriedly  through  the  hotel  to  the  carriage  which 
awaited  them.  The  Rat  saw  that  something  unusual 
was  happening  in  the  place.  Servants  were  skurrying 
round  corners,  and  guests  were  coming  out  of  their 
rooms  and  even  hanging  over  the  balustrades. 

As  Marco  got  into  his  carriage,  he  caught  sight  of 
a  boy  about  his  own  age  who  was  peeping  from  behind 
a  bush.  Suddenly  he  darted  away,  and  they  all  saw 
him  tearing  down  the  street  towards  the  station  as 
fast  as  his  legs  would  carry  him. 

But  the  horses  were  faster  than  he  was.  The  party 
reached  the  station,  and  was  escorted  quickly  to  its 
place  in  a  special  saloon-carriage  which  awaited  it. 
As  the  train  made  its  way  out  of  the  station,  Marco 
saw  the  boy  who  had  run  before  them  rush  on  to  the 
platform,  waving  his  arms  and  shouting  something 
with  wild  delight.  The  people  who  were  standing 
about  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  the  next  instant  they 
had  all  torn  off  their  caps  and  thrown  them  up  in  the 
405 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

air  and  were  shouting  also.  But  it  was  not  possible 
to  hear  what  they  said. 

"  We  were  only  just  in  time,"  said  Vorversk,  and 
Baron  Rastka  nodded. 

The  train  went  swiftly,  and  stopped  only  once  be- 
fore they  reached  Melzarr.  This  was  at  a  small  sta- 
tion, on  the  platform  of  which  stood  peasants  with  big 
baskets  of  garlanded  flowers  and  evergreens.  They 
put  them  on  the  train,  and  soon  both  Marco  and  The 
Rat  saw  that  something  unusual  was  taking  place. 
At  one  time,  a  man  standing  on  the  narrow  outside 
platform  of  the  carriage  was  plainly  seen  to  be  se- 
curing garlands  and  handing  up  flags  to  men  who 
worked  on  the  roof. 

"  They  are  doing  something  with  Samavian  flags 
and  a  lot  of  flowers  and  green  things!"  cried  The 
Rat,  in  excitement. 

"  Sir,  they  are  decorating  the  outside  of  the  car- 
riage," Vorversk  said.  "  The  villagers  on  the.  line  ob- 
tained permission  from  His  Majesty.  The  son  of 
Stefan  Loristan  could  not  be  allowed  to  pass  their 
homes  without  their  doing  homage." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Marco,  his  heart  thumping 
hard  against  his  uniform.  "  It  is  for  my  father's 
sake." 

At  last,  embowered,  garlanded,  and  hung  with  wav- 
ing banners,  the  train  drew  in  at  the  chief  station  at 
Melzarr. 

406 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Rastka,  as  they  were  entering,  "  will 
you  stand  up  that  the  people  may  see  you?  Those  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  will  have  the  merest 
glimpse,  but  they  will  never  forget." 

Marco  stood  up.  The  others  grouped  themselves 
behind  him.  There  arose  a  roar  of  voices,  which 
ended  almost  in  a  shriek  of  joy  which  was  like  the 
shriek  of  a  tempest.  Then  there  burst  forth  the  blare 
of  brazen  instruments  playing  the  National  Hymn  of 
Samavia,  and  mad  voices  joined  in  it. 

If  Marco  had  not  been  a  strong  boy,  and  long 
trained  in  self-control,  what  he  saw  and  heard  might 
have  been  almost  too  much  to  be  borne.  When  the 
train  had  come  to  a  full  stop,  and  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  even  Rastka's  dignified  voice  was  unsteady  as 
he  said,  "  Sir,  lead  the  way.  It  is  for  us  to  fol- 
low." 

And  Marco,  erect  in  the  doorway,  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, looking  out  upon  the  roaring,  acclaiming,  weep- 
ing, singing  and  swaying  multitude  —  and  saluted 
just  as  he  had  saluted  The  Squad,  looking  just  as 
much  a  boy,  just  as  much  a  man,  just  as  much  a  thrill- 
ing young  human  being. 

Then,  at  the  sight  of  him  standing  so,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  crowd  went  mad  —  as  the  Forgers  of  the  Sword 
had  seemed  to  go  mad  on  the  night  in  the  cavern. 
The  tumult  rose  and  rose,  the  crowd  rocked,  and  leapt, 
and,  in  its  frenzy  of  emotion,  threatened  to  crush 
itself  to  death.  But  for  the  lines  of  soldiers,  there 
407 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

would  have  seemed  no  chance  for  any  one  to  pass 
through  it  alive. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan,"  Marco  said  to 
himself,  in  order  to  hold  himself  steady.  "  I  am  on 
my  way  to  my  father." 

Afterward,  he  was  moving  through  the  line  of 
guarding  soldiers  to  the  entrance,  where  two  great 
state-carriages  stood;  and  there,  outside,  waited  even 
a  huger  and  more  frenzied  crowd  than  that  left  be- 
hind. He  saluted  there  again,  and  again,  and  again, 
on  all  sides.  It  was  what  they  had  seen  the  Emperor 
do  in  Vienna.  He  was  not  an  Emperor,  but  he  was 
the  son  of  Stefan  Loristan  who  had  brought  back  the 
King. 

"  You  must  salute,  too,"  he  said  to  The  Rat,  when 
they  got  into  the  state  carriage.  "  Perhaps  my  father 
has  told  them.     It  seems  as  if  they  knew  you." 

The  Rat  had  been  placed  beside  him  on  the  car- 
riage seat.  He  was  inwardly  shuddering  with  a  rap- 
ture of  exultation  which  was  almost  anguish.  The 
people  were  looking  at  him  —  shouting  at  him  — 
surely  it  seemed  like  it  when  he  looked  at  the  faces 
nearest  in  the  crowd.     Perhaps  Loristan  — 

"  Listen ! "  said  Marco  suddenly,  as  the  carriage 
rolled  on  its  way.  "  They  are  shouting  to  us  in  Sa- 
mavian,  '  The  Bearers  of  the  Sign ! '  That  is  what 
they  are  saying  now.     '  The  Bearers  of  the  Sign ! '  " 

They  were  being  taken  to  the  Palace.  That  Baron 
Rastka  and  Count  Vorversk  had  explained  in  the  train. 
408 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

His  Majesty  wished  to  receive  them.  Stefan  Loris- 
tan  was  there  also. 

The  city  had  once  been  noble  and  majestic.  It  was 
somewhat  Oriental,  as  its  uniforms  and  national  cos- 
tumes were.  There  were  domed  and  pillared  struc- 
tures of  white  stone  and  marble,  there  were  great 
arches,  and  city  gates,  and  churches.  But  many  of 
them  were  half  in  ruins  through  war,  and  neglect,  and 
decay.  They  passed  the  half-unroofed  cathedral, 
standing  in  the  sunshine  in  its  great  square,  still  in  all 
its  disaster  one  of  the  most  beautiful  structures  in  Eu- 
rope. In  the  exultant  crowd  were  still  to  be  seen  hag- 
gard faces,  men  with  bandaged  limbs  and  heads  or 
hobbling  on  sticks  and  crutches.  The  richly  colored 
native  costumes  were  most  of  them  worn  to  rags.  But 
their  wearers  had  the  faces  of  creatures  plucked  from 
despair  to  be  lifted  to  heaven. 

"  Ivor !  Ivor !  "  they  cried ;  "  Ivor !  Ivor !  "  and 
sobbed  with  rapture. 

The  Palace  was  as  wonderful  in  its  way  as  the  white 
cathedral.  The  immensely  wide  steps  of  marble  were 
guarded  by  soldiers.  The  huge  square  in  which  it 
stood  was  filled  with  people  whom  the  soldiers  held  in 
check. 

"  I  am  his  son,"  Marco  said  to  himself,  as  he  de- 
scended from  the  state  carriage  and  began  to  walk  up 
the  steps  which  seemed  so  enormously  wide  that  they 
appeared  almost  like  a  street.  Up  he  mounted,  step 
by  step,  The  Rat  following  him.  And  as  he  turned 
409 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

from  side  to  side,  to  salute  those  who  made  deep  obei- 
sance as  he  passed,  he  began  to  realize  that  he  had 
seen  their  faces  before. 

"  These  who  are  guarding  the  steps,"  he  said, 
quickly  under  his  breath  to  The  Rat,  "  are  the  Forgers 
of  the  Sword!  ". 

There  were  rich  uniforms  everywhere  when  he  en- 
tered the  palace,  and  people  who  bowed  almost  to  the 
ground  as  he  passed.  He  was  very  young  to  be  con- 
fronted with  such  an  adoring  adulation  and  royal 
ceremony  •  but  he  hoped  it  would  not  last  too  long,  and 
that  after  he  had  knelt  to  the  King  and  kissed  his 
hand,  he  would  see  his  father  and  hear  his  voice.  Just 
to  hear  his  voice  again,  and  feel  his  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der! 

Through  the  vaulted  corridors,  to  the  wide-opened 
doors  of  a  magnificent  room  he  was  led  at  last.  The 
end  of  it  seemed  a  long  way  off  as  he  entered.  There 
were  many  richly  dressed  people  who  stood  in  line  as 
he  passed  up  toward  the  canopied  dais.  He  felt  that 
he  had  grown  pale  with  the  strain  of  excitement,  and 
he  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  must  be  walking  in  a 
dream,  as  on  each  side  people  bowed  low  and  curtsied 
to  the  ground. 

He  realized  vaguely  that  the  King  himself  was 
standing,  awaiting  his  approach.  But  as  he  advanced, 
each  step  bearing  him  nearer  to  the  throne,  the  light 
and  color  about  him,  the  strangeness  and  magnificence, 
the  wildly  joyous  acclamation  of  the  populace  outside 
410 


™prr;!     ;                         1 

J  •   ■■«•  Ik'"   '.        k>  . 

"     ~    f          Jl: 

>^1 

ri  .wmki 

&"       -  w 

••jf 

,.-..'      O   C:\Ui 

•    1 

i 

iv  f  - "  M 

The  King  had  the  eyes  he  had  longed  to  see 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

the  palace,  made  him  feel  rather  dazzled,  and  he  did 
not  clearly  see  any  one  single  face  or  thing. 

"  His  Majesty  awaits  you,"  said  a  voice  behind  him 
which  seemed  to  be  Baron  Rastka's.  "  Are  you  faint, 
sir?     You  look  pale." 

He  drew  himself  together,  and  lifted  his  eyes.  For 
one  full  moment,  after  he  had  so  lifted  them,  he  stood 
quite  still  and  straight,  looking  into  the  deep  beauty  of 
the  royal  face.  Then  he  knelt  and  kissed  the  hands 
held  out  to  him  —  kissed  them  both  with  a  passion  of 
boy  love  and  worship. 

The  King  had  the  eyes  he  had  longed  to  see  —  the 
King's  hands  were  those  he  had  longed  to  feel  again 
upon  his  shoulder  —  the  King  was  his  father!  the 
"  Stefan  Loristan  "  who  had  been  the  last  of  those 
who  had  waited  and  labored  for  Samavia  through  five 
hundred  years,  and  who  had  lived  and  died  kings, 
though  none  of  them  till  now  had  worn  a  crown! 

His  father  was  the  King! 

It  was  not  that  night,  nor  the  next,  nor  for  many 
nights  that  the  telling  of  the  story  was  completed. 
The  people  knew  that  their  King  and  his  son  were 
rarely  separated  from  each  other;  that  the  Prince's 
suite  of  apartments  were  connected  by  a  private  pas- 
sage with  his  father's.  The  two  were  bound  together 
by  an  affection  of  singular  strength  and  meaning, 
and  their  love  for  their  people  added  to  their  feeling 
for  each  other.  In  the  history  of  what  their  past  had 
411 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

been,  there  was  a  romance  which  swelled  the  emo- 
tional Samavian  heart  near  to  bursting.  By  moun- 
tain fires,  in  huts,  under  the  stars,  in  fields  and  in  for- 
ests, all  that  was  known  of  their  story  was  told  and 
retold  a  thousand  times,  with  sobs  of  joy  and  prayer 
breaking  in  upon  the  tale. 

But  none  knew  it  as  it  was  told  in  a  certain  quiet 
but  stately  room  in  the  palace,  where  the  man  once 
known  only  as  "  Stefan  Loristan,"  but  whom  history 
would  call  the  first  King  Ivor  of  Samavia,  told  his 
share  of  it  to  the  boy  whom  Samavians  had  a  strange 
and  superstitious  worship  for,  because  he  seemed  so 
surely  their  Lost  Prince  restored  in  body  and  soul  — 
almost  the  kingly  lad  in  the  ancient  portrait  —  some  of 
them  half  believed  when  he  stood  in  the  sunshine,  with 
the  halo  about  his  head. 

It  was  a  wonderful  and  intense  story,  that  of  the 
long  wanderings  and  the  close  hiding  of  the  danger- 
ous secret.  Among  all  those  who  had  known  that  a 
man  who  was  an  impassioned  patriot  was  laboring  for 
Samavia,  and  using  all  the  power  of  a  great  mind  and 
the  delicate  ingenuity  of  a  great  genius  to  gain  friends 
and  favor  for  his  unhappy  country,  there  had  been  but 
one  who  had  known  that  Stefan  Loristan  had  a  claim 
to  the  Samavian  throne.  He  had  made  no  claim,  he 
had  sought  —  not  a  crown  —  but  the  final  freedom 
of  the  nation  for  which  his  love  had  been  a  religion. 

"  Not  the  crown !  "  he  said  to  the  two  young  Bear- 
ers of  the  Sign  as  they  sat  at  his  feet  like  schoolboys 
412 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

— "  not  a  throne.  '  The  Life  of  my  life  —  for  Sama- 
via.' That  was  what  I  worked  for  —  what  we  have 
all  worked  for.  If  there  had  risen  a  wiser  man  in 
Samavia's  time  of  need,  it  would  not  have  been  for 
me  to  remind  them  of  their  Lost  Prince.  I  could  have 
stood  aside.  But  no  man  arose.  The  crucial  mo- 
ment came  —  and  the  one  man  who  knew  the  secret, 
revealed  it.     Then —  Samavia  called,  and  I  answered." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  thick,  black  hair  of  his  boy's 
head. 

"  There  was  a  thing  we  never  spoke  of  together," 
he  said.  "  I  believed  always  that  your  mother  died 
of  her  bitter  fears  for  me  and  the  unending  strain  of 
them.  She  was  very  young  and  loving,  and  knew 
that  there  was  no  day  when  we  parted  that  we  were 
sure  of  seeing  each  other  alive  again.  When  she  died, 
she  begged  me  to  promise  that  your  boyhood  and 
youth  should  not  be  burdened  by  the  knowledge  she 
had  found  it  so  terrible  to  bear.  I  should  have  kept 
the  secret  from  you,  even  if  she  had  not  so  implored 
me.  I  had  never  meant  that  you  should  know  the 
truth  until  you  were  a  man.  If  I  had  died,  a  certain 
document  would  have  been  sent  to  you  which  would 
have  left  my  task  in  your  hands  and  made  my  plans 
clear.  You  would  have  known  then  that  you  also 
were  a  Prince  Ivor,  who  must  take  up  his  country's 
burden  and  be  ready  when  Samavia  called.  I  tried 
to  help  you  to  train  yourself  for  any  task.  You  never 
failed  me." 

413 


THE  LOST  PRINCE 

"  Your  Majesty,"  said  The  Rat,  "  I  began  to  work 
it  out,  and  think  it  must  be  true  that  night  when  we 
were  with  the  old  woman  on  the  top  of  the  mountain. 
It  was  the  way  she  looked  at  —  at  His  Highness." 

"  Say  '  Marco,'  "  threw  in  Prince  Ivor.  "  It 's 
easier.     He  was  my  army,  Father." 

Stefan  Loristan's  grave  eyes  melted. 

"  Say  '  Marco,'  "  he  said.  "  You  were  his  army  — 
and  more, —  when  we  both  needed  one.  It  was  you 
who  invented  The  Game ! " 

"  Thanks,  Your  Majesty,"  said  The  Rat,  reddening 
scarlet.  "  You  do  me  great  honor !  But  he  would 
never  let  me  wait  on  him  when  we  were  traveling.  He 
said  we  were  nothing  but  two  boys.  I  suppose  that 's 
why  it 's  hard  to  remember,  at  first.  But  my  mind 
went  on  working  until  sometimes  I  was  afraid  I  might 
let  something  out  at  the  wrong  time.  When  we  went 
down  into  the  cavern,  and  I  saw  the  Forgers  of  the 
Sword  go  mad  over  him  —  I  knew  it  must  be  true. 
But  I  did  n't  dare  to  speak.  I  knew  you  meant  us  to 
wait;  so  I  waited." 

"  You  are  a  faithful  friend,"  said  the  King,  "  and 
you  have  always  obeyed  orders ! " 

A  great  moon  was  sailing  in  the  sky  that  night  — 
just  such  a  moon  as  had  sailed  among  the  torn  rifts  of 
storm  clouds  when  the  Prince  at  Vienna  had  come  out 
upon  the  balcony  and  the  boyish  voice  had  startled 
him  from  the  darkness  of  the  garden  below.  The 
clearer  light  of  this  night's  splendor  drew  them  out  on 
414 


"  THE  SON  OF  STEFAN  LORISTAN  " 

a  balcony  also — a  broad  balcony  of  white  marble 
which  looked  like  snow.  The  pure  radiance  fell  upon 
all  they  saw  spread  before  them  —  the  lovely  but  half- 
ruined  city,  the  great  palace  square  with  its  broken 
statues  and  arches,  the  splendid  ghost  of  the  unroofed 
cathedral  whose  High  Altar  was  bare  to  the  sky. 

They  stood  and  looked  at  it.  There  was  a  stillness 
in  which  all  the  world  might  have  ceased  breathing. 

"What  next?"  said  Prince  Ivor,  at  last  speaking 
quietly  and  low.     "What  next,  Father?" 

"  Great  things  which  will  come,  one  by  one,"  said 
the  King,  "  if  we  hold  ourselves  ready." 

Prince  Ivor  turned  his  face  from  the  lovely,  white, 
broken  city,  and  put  his  brown  hand  on  his  father's 
arm. 

"  Upon  the  ledge  that  night  — "  he  said,  "  Father, 
you  remember  —  ?  "  The  King  was  looking  far  away, 
but  he  bent  his  head: 

"  Yes.  That  will  come,  too,"  he  said.  "  Can  you 
repeat  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ivor,  "  and  so  can  the  aide-de-camp. 
We  've  said  it  a  hundred  times.  We  believe  it 's  true. 
'  If  the  descendant  of  the  Lost  Prince  is  brought  back 
to  rule  in  Samavia,  he  will  teach  his  people  the  Law 
of  the  One,  from  his  throne.  He  will  teach  his  son, 
and  that  son  will  teach  his  son,  and  he  will  teach  his. 
And  through  such  as  these,  the  whole  world  will 
learn  the  Order  and  the  Law.'  " 


415 


w 
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g     § 

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<0<* 


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5    2    g 

w  ~  i 

MO1" 


-2   E 
o  ^ 


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O  a 

S  I 

O  H 
Z 


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